


The Anteros Affair

by Cân Cennau (cancennau)



Series: The Coffee Arc [2]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Case Fic, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot and Hastings take a break in France, but nothing is ever smooth sailing when it comes to these two. Daily update. Sequel to Sweet Agape Nectar. Poirot/Hastings, established.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After our understanding on New Years eve, Poirot and I started spending a lot more time together. Although I could not leave the cafe during the day, and he too had his own work to be getting on with, we always found some time to be together, whether it be a quiet coffee morning or a night in with the wireless and a glass of wine to keep us company. Much of the time was spent indulging in pleasurable kisses and gentle caresses - an activity I was most fond of - however, our conversations were deep and enthralling too, leading both of us talking animatedly deep into the night.

We had discussed our journey to Montelimar in great detail. We would take the ferry - much to Poirot's disgust - to reach Calais, before taking two trains - one from Calais to Lyon, and the other from Lyon to the town of Montelimar. When the day dawned, everything went as smooth as it could've been hoped for - the sea voyage was smooth and not too hard on Poirot's stomach, and there was no delay in reaching Montelimar by sunset.

The town of Montelimar had changed drastically since I last saw it. Whereas once it had been a minefield of underground tunnels and bunkers, it was now a sweet, quiet village. Sure, the war still left it's mark - barbed wire could be seen in a few abandoned spots, pockmarks littered the unplowed fields and the local paper headline marked yet another discovery of an undetonated bomb. And yet there was a certain energy humming through the town, filling the air with sweet breezes and bright sunshine.

We quickly checked into the inn we stayed at - a quaint little place, a little removed from the main village. Our rooms boasted excellent views of the countryside, with soft, plush beds and spacious dressers indoors, along with full central heating. I unpacked my suitcase quickly, neatly slinging my coats and trousers over hangers with practised ease. After throuwing the last of my coats over the edge of my bed, I put my head around the door of the room beside mine to see how Poirot was doing with his unpacking. He was so involved in hanging and folding everything neatly that he didn't notice me watching him from the door, and I knew that I shouldn't disturb him during this time. Instead, I ducked back out the door, down the stairs and headed out onto the patio, and into the May evening.

The air was smooth and sweet with the scent of ripening wheat, and I breathed it in slowly as I wandered over and leant on the lew stone wall separating the garden from the patio. It had been far too long since I had been out of the city. I was infinitely grateful to Poirot for taking me here - and, of course, indulging in other pleasures. We had not been intimate as of yet - we didn't even live together yet - but I smiled whenever I thought of one of the many shy kisses we had exchanged over the past months, or the slow entanglement of fingers and palms when no-one was looking.

I pondered on those moments for a while, remembering the soft murmurs and gentle touches that defined our current relationship. I was so engrossed in my memories that I didn't notice someone sidle up to me until his elbow caught me in the side. Letting out a grunt of annoyance, I looked up to see my assailant - a man of tall stature, with roguish facial features a pair of blazing blue eyes that I had not seen in years.

"That can't be Arthur Hastings, can it?" the man cried jovialy, clapping his hand down hard on my back, causing me to cough.

"David?!" I managed to wheeze out.

"Ey, that's David James, as you full well know!"

"Sorry, forgot. Haven't seen you in a while!" We shared a brief hug where my old friend nearly squeezed the life out of me. David James Fletcher, who liked to be referred to by his full name whenever possible, had been a bunk mate of mine for several years during our time on the front line. By bunkmate, I did not simply mean one who shared a bunk - we had shared beds and bodily fluids too. He was a habitual sexual partner of mine, until I was invalided out of the trenches, after which I had seen neither hide nor hair of him.

It seemed he remembered me too, judging from the look in his eye and the way he looked me up and down appreciatively. I hoped that this was as far as he would dare go with company present - the patio was not the most private of places - but as soon as he stepped around me to shield our hands from prying eyes, I knew that I would not escape this situation unscathed.

"So, what have you been up to, pretty boy?" he muttered, voice low. I repressed a shudder at the terrible nickname - I had despised it when he first came up with it, and as such he continued to call me it.

"Working, mostly." I had tried to sound completely normal, but my voice came out as a squeak due to my nerves. I felt his laugh vibrate through me and I blushed hotly. This amused David even more, and he reached up to stroke my bright red cheek with his finger. I batted it away, annoyed with him for his actions and annoyed at myself for my reactions.

"Oh yeah? Working at what?" Having been denied his chance to stroke my face, he dragged his finger down my forearm. "Hopefully not some namby-pamby job like sewing or waitressing - no, we both know you are much more... man than that."

"David…" I growled warningly, as I felt his hand drift down to rest on my belt buckle. He grinned cheekily at me, not expecting any retribution for his actions, but I had had enough. I was with Poirot now, not him. Although sometimes I longed to sexual touch, I respected Poirot's decision to wait, and I was not going to turn to an old flame for comfort. The past was the past, and there it would stay. I removed David's hand from my waist.

"You were always a shy boy," David remarked, misreading my actions entirely. I sighed in frustration, but my breath caught as his hand slid back to my waist and began pulling my hurt out from here it was neatly tucked in my trousers. "But don't you fret, pretty boy, we won't get caught-"

"David, no." I said, pushing his hand away. He stared at me in increduality, before stepping directly into my personal space. The inches of height difference between us were made all the more apparent, which made him all the more intimidating. His hand slid forcefully under my shirt, and I froze, with no-where to escape.

"No-one will know. All these villagers are far too simple to know, plus they don't even speak English! You just-"

"Hastings?"

I whirled around, David's hand slipping from under my shirt as sleekly as a snake. Poirot was approaching us, having evidently finished unpacking and come to find me. I sighed in relief, before smiling at him in greeting, hoping he could not see the frantic beating of my heart under my shirt.

"Hullo Poirot," I said, stepping forward and lightly touching his elbow in a comforting gesture. "I wondered whether you had finished unpacking yet."

"Mais oui, I have finished." Poirot replied, touching my hand on his elbow and smiling in return. He looked between David and I, awaiting an introduction.

"Oh, this is David James Fletcher, an old friend of mine from the war. David, this is my friend Hercule Poirot, a detective of the most renown. He and I came here together for a break from the city."

"Very nice to meet you, mister Poirot." He greeted, but I could tell it was an act - he was annoyed that we had been interrupted. "Please call me David James - I prefer people to call me by my full first name."

"Of course, monsieur David James. It is a pleasure to meet you as well."

"I was just saying, I hadn't seen old Hastings here in a while - not since our trench days. I was wondering if I may steal him from your company tonight - to catch up on news and such like."

"I really can't join you tonight, David." I interrupted before Poirot could even speak. "I am still tired from the journey here - we only arrived in the country a few hours ago."

"Of course, I understand. Tomorrow, then."

"I-"

"Would that be agreeable to you, Monsieur Poirot?" I turned to Poirot, and hoped to death that he would refuse the request. However, I was out of luck - Poirot gave a sharp nod in agreement, although I could tell from the pinch in his cheeks that he wasn't exacly happy about it.

"Then it's settled!" David announced joyfully, clapping his hands together. "Arthur, I'm staying over the road in that house there-" He pointed to a nondescript townhouse. "Come over and join me at, say, seven o clock tomorrow?"

With no other choice, I nodded meekly. He grinned at me, before leaving us in peace as he jaunted down the road, whistling a merry tune. I exchanged a look with Poirot, dread pooling at the pit of my stomach, and I could tell Poirot felt the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The sudden appearance of David James had really thrown a spanner into my plan of a relaxing holiday. Now I had to try and fend him off and get him to understand that I was no longer interested, that I was a taken man. I dreaded the task of forcing the message into his thick skull - David was a mountain of a man, and could easily overpower me if I said the wrong thing, and I feared that he may hurt me. I did not trust him to listen to what I felt, so absorbed was he in himself and his own feelings.

I tried not to let my anxiety bleed through the rest of the evening. Dinner was served at eight o’ clock, and after a scrumptious dish of coq au vin, we retired to our rooms to while the evening away. Poirot was keen to bathe after the long journey, so I allowed him use of the bathroom whilst I tuned the wireless and attempted to make head and tail of French radio. I barely understood any of it, but a few of the songs I recognised from Poirot humming them when in a joyful mood, and so I left it play in the background.

Despite the relative calm of our rooms, I still felt restless, unable to sit and focus on one thing for more than a few minutes. By the time Poirot had finished washing, I had moved from the lounge into my own room, and now lay across the bed in my pyjamas, doodling on a spare piece of paper I had found. Soon enough though, I found my attention wandering, and in frustration, I screwed up the paper and threw it, without looking, in the general direction of the bin.

A quiet chuckle drew my attention to the door. Poirot stood there, in his own pyjamas and dressing gown the paper I had thrown sitting at his feet, several meters away from it’s intended target. I murmured an apology to him, but he seemed to take it in his stride, swiftly picking the paper up and throwing it into the bin for me, before coming to me and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You have been distracted this evening, mon ami.” he said quietly, taking my hand in his.

“I know. I’m sorry.” I replied quietly, squeezing his hand in comfort. We were silent for a time, until Poirot spoke up, a little hesitantly.

“Is this to do… with monsieur David James?”

“Yes.” I quietly. I paused for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts for a comprehensible answer. Should I tell him of the affair of David and I? Should I admit that I feared that David might try to continue our past indiscretions? I was tempted to leave these facts out as to not worry Poirot when I left tomorrow evening to meet David, but I knew if this relationship was going to work, I had to be honest.

“We were sexual partners during the war,” I continued after a lengthy pause. “Until I was invalided, that is. I never saw him again until today. He remembers me, what we did. He wants to continue it. ”

“I see. And he has offered himself intimately to you?”

“Yes. I have told him I am not interested.” I looked up into Poirot’s concerned green eyes. “You are the only man I want.”

Poirot smiled down at me, before leaning down and kissing me thoroughly. “You shall have him soon, mon cher.” he murmured, and I felt my pulse quicken at the thought. We spent a few moments indulging in a few comforting kisses, me pulling him down so he lay next to me and I could kiss him more indulgently. After a few moments, he settled to lay beside me, hands entangled and my head on his shoulder. Although my anxiety was now lessened somewhat, there was still something on my mind that I felt I had to speak up about.

“Poirot…”

“Oui?”

“I…” I stopped, trying to figure out the words I wanted to say. Poirot watched me quietly, encouraging me with soft caresses.

“I do not want to see him again. Not after today. You see, when he accosted me earlier this evening… he did not immediately listen when I said no. It was only when you arrived that he stopped asking.”

“You deserve better than him, mon ange.” Poirot said decisively, and I was surprised at the anger in his voice.

“I know, but… I fear him. He is far bigger than I, and far stronger too. What if I can’t say no? What if he uses force to- to-”

Poirot cut me off with a hard, bruising kiss. I kissed back desperately, clutching at his shirtsleeves, hoping he could assuage the anxiety and fear I felt.

“If he does anything to hurt you,” Poirot told me, his voice a mixture of anger and possessiveness. “I shall try to do everything in my power to bring him to justice. Bon Dieu, I shall try.”

I nodded at him, a little overcome with emotion at his words. Poirot’s face softened as he saw my plight, and he leant forward again and gave me a gentler, more searching kiss. I sighed a little as he pulled away - his kisses made me forget all the stresses in life, at least for a few minutes.

The church bells rang through the village, disturbing our peace and alerting us to the late hour. We should both be going to bed soon - our separate beds most likely, much to my disappointment.

However, Poirot had different plans. Pulling himself up from the bed, he tightened his grip on my hand and pulled me up with him.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as he pulled me out of my room and towards his. Poirot paused, before turning to me with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Sleep with me tonight, mon ami?”

My mouth fell open with surprise and delight. For the first time, we would get to share a bed, sleep as a couple should. I felt dizzy from the rush of euphoria that buzzed through my veins as I nodded in acceptance, and allowed him to pull me into his room, a broad smile decorating both of our faces.

We fell into bed,, and once settled in our normal sleeping positions, we held each other as we allowed the embrace of Morpheus to shroud us in darkness.

[BREAK]

Morning dawned bright and warm, the sun’s early morning rays creeping into the gaps in the curtains and dancing across our sleepy bodies. I had awoken only minutes before, and was still marveling at all the new sensations I was feeling - the warm, compact body beside me, the silk pyjamas Poirot wore that tickled my cheek as I rested my head on his shoulder, the comfort of having someone to hold.

Reaching across, I tangled my fingers with the hand that lay on his stomach, smiling softly when there was no resistance. I was very comfortable here, and I considered snuggling up and going back to sleep again when the bell from the church rang out, it’s deep ring reverberating through my bones. It also seemed to awaken Poirot, who stirred beneath me. I looked up at his face as he slowly opened his eyes and regained his bearings.

“Good morning,” I said softly, kissing his shoulder. He looked at me and smiled broadly, and at that sight I felt I had to reach up and give kiss him properly.

“Good morning, mon chou.” he replied once we had exchanged a few kisses. “You slept well?”

“Mmm. Could sleep some more though.” I snuggled closer to him, and closed my eyes. “What time will you be going to church this morning?”

“Service begins at half past nine - it is nine now, so unfortunately I shall have to leave you soon.”

I made a noise of discontentment, and buried my face in his neck as if this could stop him from leaving. He laughed, the action sending vibrations through both of us, before untangling himself from my clutches and sitting up. Before getting up however, he looked around the room in bemusement, a small smile tugging at his lips.

I also looked around, to see what amused him so. I noticed that Poirot’s side of the bed was still as neat and as immaculate as it was as he first got in it, whilst my side looked as if a hurricane had ripped through it - the duvet was all wrinkled and bunched, and I wasn’t exactly sure where my pillow was, only that it wasn’t on the bed. I blushed hotly, and Poirot chuckled lowly at my expense. He placed a soft kiss on my head as a placating gesture when I looked up to mock glare at him, before getting up and beginning to sort through his wardrobe in search of clothes. I watched him do so, languidly stretching out into the newfound space on the bed. Upon completion of dressing, he turned to me, sweeping his eyes across the mess I had made whilst napping.

“Be sure to fix this when you arise, yes?” he asked. I nodded. He smiled at me, before bending down and kissing me goodbye. I watched as he left, before stealing his pillow and hugging it close, returning to sleep amongst the remnants of his scent.

 


	3. Chapter 3

I did not arise from the bed until eleven this morning - a rarity for me, as I usually despised staying in bed for longer than was necessary. And yet this morning, I was loath to leave it. If I couldn't feel the hunger pangs in my stomach, I probably would've stayed longer. But alas, breakfast called, and I was not one to skip meals. I headed down the stairs and into the main part of the inn, hoping for some late morning toast and jam, and possibly some tea if they had any.

Upon arriving downstairs, I came across a sight that very nearly sent me back upstairs - David James, sat in the bar, evidently looking for someone. Remembering the events of yesterday, I stepped back and half hid in the shadow of a large cupboard so that he couldn't see me. I was sure he had mentioned dinner today, not lunch, so why was he here so early? Was he waiting for me, or someone else? Since we would be seeing each other this evening, it would've been far more likely that he was waiting for someone else, but still I was loath to step out from my hiding spot.

It became evident that my misgivings were correct when Poirot re-entered the inn. David leapt up as if electrocuted, and hurried to his side. They exchanged a few words, and I watched as Poirot started to frown at his words, the frown getting deeper and deeper as they spoke for longer and longer. I could sense the deepening tension between the two men from my hiding place. Unwilling to cause Poirot any undue distress, I reluctantly decided to step out of the shadows and join the conversation.

"Ah, Arthur! There you are!" David was onto me as soon as I had taken the first step. I gave him a weak smile in response to his jovial one. Walking to stand beside Poirot, I lightly touched his elbow in greeting, and was rewarded with a warm smile in response.

"Hullo, David. What are you doing here?" I asked politely.

"Oh, just fancied a stroll, you know. Are you still available for tonight?"

"Of course." I highly doubted he just 'fancied a stroll', but I kept my mouth shut about that.

"Oh, jolly good! You know… you could always come around earlier, if you like."

"Oh, um… I'm sorry David, I can't make it any earlier. Busy schedule, you know."

"Oh?" A crafty glint entered his eye, and I had the distinct feeling he knew I was lying. "What are you doing today, then?"

Before I even had a chance to rack my brain for a suitable excuse, Poirot spoke up from my side.

"Unfortunately, I have been called to discuss a case this afternoon, and will be away most of the evening. Captain Hastings will be assisting me."

"Is that so?" This answer seemed to catch David off guard, and he looked between us for a few seconds, completely silent. I tried not to let my own surprise show on my face - this 'case' was certainly a surprise to me!

"In that case…" David said after a while, visibly collecting his wits. "I shall see you tonight, Arthur." And with a wave, he was gone.

I let out the breath I had been holding. Poirot turned to me at the sound, looking at me amusedly, before speaking.

"How long had you been hidden in the shadows, Hastings?"

"Only for a few minutes!" I replied, flushing in embarrassment at being caught. "I just didn't want today to turn out a repeat of yesterday-"

"That is understandable, mon ami. But when Poirot is around, you can be sure monsieur David James will not lay a hand on you, yes?"

Not knowing how to respond, I simply smiled at him, and continued what I was going to say. "But I must say, that was a remarkable story you came out with about the case. Nearly had me fooled!"

"Oh, but you see Hastings, je n'ai pas menti. We do in fact have a case for today."

"Really? When did this happen?"

"I was asked to look into it by the vicaire of this town. There seem to be a very strange thief walking the streets of M-."

"Oh yes?" Poirot looked as if he were going to elaborate, but at that moment my stomach let out a low rumble. I flushed a deeper shade of red as Poirot heard it and grinned mischievously up at me.

"Perhaps we should discuss it over breakfast, yes? Once the little grey cells have been nourished."

[BREAK]

It turned out the inn did not have tea, but did have very nice coffee. And so, after a breakfast of toast and jam, coffee, mixed fruit and croissants, my stomach was quiet enough so that I could pay attention to what Poirot was saying.

"So what's this case all about, then?" I asked, wiping my hands in my napkin to show I had finished. Poirot watched me ponderously over his own cup of tisane before answering.

"You see, Hastings, there has been a theft up in the church."

"A theft? What was stolen?"

"That is what makes this case interesting, Hastings. You see, there went missing a selection of very strange items - the hands from the indoor clock, the papal emblem made of wrought iron, a necklace said to belong to a saint, and the vicars spare ring of keys that are used to open the church and the nearby crypt."

"I say, those are a strange collection of items. I mean, why would he steal the keys when he's already proven that he can break into the church without them?"

Poirot gave one of his emphasised Gallic shrugs. "I do not know, but we shall discover the reason soon. However, that is not the only part of this case. The theft occurred a few weeks ago. No, it is something a little more sinister that prompted this case."

"What happened?"

"Two nights ago, certain graves in the churchyard were dug up and their contents disturbed."

"What?!" I said, scandalized. "That's completely disrespectful! Barbaric even!"

I noted a quick glimpse of a smile flit across Poirot's face at my reaction, but I stood by my words - you should never disturb the dead. It just wasn't done.

"As barbaric as you think it may be, it was still done. And then last night the thieves returned to the site…"

"And dug it up again?!"

"Very nearly did. The police force in this town were keeping guard over the church since the robbery. The constable on guard managed to chase them away, but unfortunately could not apprehend them."

"It's a jolly good turn that there was a guard there. Who knows what could've been turned up if the thieves had their way!"

Poirot nodded in agreement, carefully folding away his own napkin, having finished his own brioche. "It is a most interesting case, you think Hastings?"

"Yes. rather! I haven't the foggiest why someone would do something like that. Unless they were part of some barmy religious sect."

"Your imagination is quite extraordinary, mon cher." Poirot told me with a smile. "But I can assure you there is no sect involved with this. At least, not to my knowledge. Before we try and hypothesis however, we first must gather facts."

"What will you do?"

"Firstly, we must inspect the scene of crime. If you are happy to assist me, we shall make our way back up to the church in a few minutes."

"Me? Assist you? On a case?"

"Oui."

My head spun with the excitement of assisting my friend with his work - it had been a boyhood hankering of mine to be a detective, although I doubted I would ever have the smarts to become one. "You really weren't just saying that so I didn't have to spend most of the day with David?"

"Non, I do believe you could be of some assistance."

"Then of course I'll assist! If you think I'll be helpful, that is."

"Bon, then it is settled." He smiled at me, and I grinned giddily back. "After we inspect the church, we must interview any suspects and witnesses."

"How do we know who is a suspect?"

"The police have been kind enough to produce a list of possible suspects out of the people in the town - the vast majority of the townsfolk are either too old or too frail to be digging the copses in the dark of night, so the list is not long."

"Right."

"And the good Reverend Leopold has invited you and I up to the church tonight for a small get together of the local Rotary Club, whose members, by some happenstance, include all the suspects on the list."

"That is good luck- hang on…" My brain, which had still been stuck on having been asked to assist, suddenly caught up with something that Poirot had just said. "Tonight? I'm not going to be able to go, am I? I'm meeting David tonight."

"Oui, that is one problem with todays arrangements." I felt my stomach drop through the floor in disappointment. Poirot's eyes expressed regret at my plight.

"I suppose I can't just cancel this meeting with David, can I?"

"You know monsieur David James will not leave you alone if you do not go tonight."

"That is true… I guess you'll have to go by yourself." I sighed quietly, a little put out at being left behind. Poirot reached out and patted my hand in sympathy.

"Do not fret, mon cher Hastings. There shall be other times you can assist me, yes?"

I nodded, and smiled a little at him. He was right. There were always more adventures I could help with. I was just a little disappointed that I'd be missing this one.


	4. Chapter 4

The Church of Saint Maudet was not at all what I expected from such a quaint town. It was an ornately decorated building, built in the Gothic style with large, sweeping arches and wrought iron fencing. Several gargoyles hung from the bell tower, looking down upon the entrance with cold stone eyes, as if guarding the church from evil. Statues of archangels and small altars bearing flowers littered the graveyard next door, giving the whole place a distinctly eerie feel.

I tried to shake off my discomfort as we entered the church, but I found it difficult to ignore my misgivings. There was something… off about the place, and I couldn't tell what it was. I considered telling Poirot of how I felt here, but decided against it - it wasn't helpful to the case, and I didn't want Poirot to think I was frightened.

"Aha, monsieur Poirot!" A sonorous voice boomed from behind us, causing us both to jump in fright. I whirled around to look where it was coming from, and was rather surprised to see a little old man behind us. I would never had believed this skinny, frail man would've had the strength to hold such a powerful voice had he not then cried out "It is very good of you to come!" whilst I was watching.

"Reverend Leopold." Poirot said, greeting him in the traditional continental style. "This is my associate Captain Hastings - he will be assisting me in this matter."

"Very nice to meet you, Captain." Reverend Leopold nodded at me, and I smiled back. "But now is not the time for pleasantries - you wished to see where the theft took place?"

"If you would be so kind to show us." Reverend Leopold nodded once more, before sweeping away down a side, raising his arm to indicate we should follow. A trip up a small set of spiral stairs later, and we stepped into what seemed to be an office. Official looking parchment paper littered the large mahogany desk that sat in the middle of the room, whilst the walls were covered from head to toe with bookshelves. The wall behind the desk contained a large window, notable for the fact that the middle section of it had been smashed, and the giant hole covered in tarpaulin.

"This is where it occurred." Reverend Leopold said quietly, stepping around the desk to sit in the plush armchair behind it. "The police believe the theives used a ladder to get up to the window, then smashed their way through a rather marvellous stained glass image of the Virgin Mary."

"I say…" I remarked quietly, looking up at the empty window with sadness. Poirot however simply nodded his head, before beginning to investigate the room in minute detail. Deciding to leave him to it, I went and looked at the bookcases that surrounded the room. There were plenty of thick tombs stacked together on the shelves, but that wasn't all that was here - certain objects also littered the spaces around the books. Near the top on the bookcase there was an ostriches egg, and near the bottom, an ammonites fossil. Small bronze statuettes acted as book ends and paperweights on the shelves, keeping everything relatively neat. However, what really struck my fancy was a large, gold clock that took up the centre of the bookshelf.

"Was this the clock that had the hands stolen?" I asked Reverend Leopold. He looked at where I pointed, and nodded sharply.

"Yes, that was the one. One of my adoptive sons has replaced the hands with replicas of the old ones so that I may be able to tell the time, but yes, it was that one they broke."

I turned back to the clock and examined it closely. It was elaborately designed, with curls of gold material attached together in a pattern making up the body, and parchment coloured fabric making up the face. Looking closely at the hands, I noted that they too were fanciful in design, with quatrefoils making up the base, long bars of twisted gold making up the length and small cubic shapes making up the ends. In fact, they looked a little like…

"Reverend? You don't happen to have an image of the papal emblem that was taken?" I asked, grasped by a sudden idea.

"Not of the one that was stolen, no, but there is an image of it in one of the encyclopaedias." Reverend Leopold got up from his seat and began trailing his fingers across the spines of a few French tomes. Picking out a particularly hefty tome, he brought it over to the desk, before beginning to rifle through it. As Reverend Leopold looked through it, I noted that it seemed to be some kind of encyclopaedia, a French or Breton version of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, perhaps.

"Here we are. This is the emblem that was taken. Coincidentally, the bottom half of this emblem was also the charm that hung from the necklace of Saint Maudet." I studied the emblem carefully, and felt myself smile as my suspicions were proved true.

"All of them keys..." I murmured to myself. Poirot turned from where he was looking at something on the mantelpiece, and looked at me strangely. I looked back at him, filled with a sudden sense of excitement. I had found the link between the objects that were stolen! "Keys, Poirot! All the stolen items were keys! See here-" I showed him the encyclopaedia with the papal emblem. "The emblem contains the keys of Saint Peter. The clock hands are in the shape of keys - you can see the spare hands here - and the necklace, that had a piece that resembled a key too!"

"Sacre… bien sur, and it is so!" Poirot gave me a quick, proud grin, before looking back at my evidence and adopting a thoughtful expression. "But the question is… What do these keys open?"

"A door? A safe, maybe?" I looked towards Reverend Leopold, but he shook his head.

"There is no safe on these grounds. The only lockable doors are the back entrance, the front door and the crypt. And there is nothing of value in the crypt, to my knowledge."

"I would like to make sure of that myself, if I may." Poirot spoke quietly, pulling himself out of his completive state.

"Of course. My main set of keys are with Bryant - he shall take you there."

Bryant was Reverend Leopold's youngest protegee. Currently training to be part of the Belgian police force, he was a broad, dark mass of muscle and bone, over six foot tall and with the face of a bulldog. He spoke little, but whatever words that came out in his deep gravelly voice were educated and thoughtful. I felt a little intimidated by him as we walked side by side to the crypt, but I supposed that was a good thing if you were to be a member of the police.

We arrived at the crypt within a few minutes. I could see why Reverend Leopold would say it held nothing valuable - there was no way one could call this half buried building secure. The ramshackle walls looked one blow away from collapsing, the iron fencing surrounding it was rusted and broken, and the crypt door was barely hanging on its hinges. Bryant was unperturbed by such a scene, instead unlocking the stiff lock with a practised hand, and standing aside so that Poirot and I could enter.

The inside of the crypt was no better than the outside. I could see from the doorway that everything was covered in cobwebs and dirt. Knowing that Poirot would not stop complaining if he went in there and got his clothes dirty, I volunteered to go in by myself. The beams across the ceiling hung low and bowed, so that I kept having to duck my head to avoid them. Smashed remnants of stone sarcophagi littered the crypt floor, the jagged edges of the ruins catching and snagging on my clothes.

"What do you see down there, Hastings?" Poirot called out from the doorway, where he waited for my initial report.

"Not much." I replied. "Stone, spiders, cobwebs… there isn't much here- oh hold on…"

As I had been talking, I had taken note of a space in the wall, very narrow, but big enough for someone to squeeze through. I had thought not to investigate it, believing it to be unimportant, but after seeing nothing else in the front part of the crypt, I decided to go though and look. It was a tight squeeze, and at some points I feared that I could get stuck, but with a little wriggling, I pulled myself out of the space and into a hidden room

Very soon after I had squeezed through the gap, my foot came into contact with a round object that very nearly sent me flying into the wall. Upon closer inspection, It turned out to be a glass bottle, and by running my finger along the pattern, I could discern the name of a popular soft drink. I looked deeper into the gloom, and saw something rather out of place - the remnants of a small fire, set up under a large crack in the roof, through which the sky could be seen. Further investigation revealed more glass bottles around the fire, old ratty pillows and books propped up against walls, and in the darkest corner, a sorry looking mattress.

I backed up out of the room and reported everything I had seen to Poirot, who listened with great interest. I showed him the bottle I had nearly tripped up on, and he took that from me, examining it minutely and even taking a discreet sniff from the open end. He then gave the bottle to Bryant, and requested it be kept as evidence by the police, and also requested that the crypt should not be disturbed. Bryant nodded in acceptance of his orders, before locking the crypt and plodding off in the direction of the main road, leaving me and Poirot alone together.

"So, what do you think of the case, Hastings?" Poirot asked, turning to me.

"Still murky to me, Poirot. Can't make head nor tail of it."

"Ah, but all will come clear soon, I think. A few more facts, a few more clues…"

"I sure hope so. What are we going to do to find these other clues?"

"In time, we shall find them. But first, we must return to the inn. You are covered in the cobwebs and the dirt from your escapade!"

I looked down at myself. It was so dark in the crypt, that I had not noticed the dirt and cobwebs attaching themselves to my clothes. I was sure I looked a right mess, and so began to brush some of the dirt from my clothes in order to look presentable. Poirot stepped closer to me and, taking out his pocket square, began tenderly brushing the dirt from my face. I subtly inhaled the familiar rich scent of my partner, calmed by his closeness.

"There," he said quietly once he had cleared most of the dirt away. "You look a little less dishevelled, eh?"

I smiled softly at him in response, happy just to stand here and be taken care of by him. He returned my smile, lingering a little in close quarters, before stepping back and indicating I should follow him, checking his watch as he went.

"Come Hastings, we must return. It is nearly six o clock, and you must wash the rest of the dirt away before meeting with monsieur David James.

"I know, I know…" I grumbled, remembering the undesirable dinner I had to attend. "Hey, perhaps if I went looking like this, he will leave me alone!"

Poirot smiled at my joke, but said nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

"You know, I think that there must be another entrance to the crypt."

We had returned from the church as soon as we were able, leaving the scene in the capable hands of Bryant and Reverend Leopold. Poirot and I hadn't the chance to speak properly when we got in, instead splitting up to sort our respective selves out - him to change for the rotary club meeting, and I to wash the cobwebs from my hair. Currently I was lounging in a warm bath, having left the bathroom door open so that I could speak to Poirot whilst I bathed. Poirot himself was by the living room mirror, carefully attending to his moustache.

"You think so, Hastings?" Poirot responded to my question almost distractedly, too immersed in personal grooming to pay much attention to what I was saying. I didn't mind, I liked to just speak aloud sometimes to get my thoughts in order.

"Yes… Yes, I think so. There has to be."

"And what makes you say that, mon ami?"

"Well, that small room at the back. No-one can get into the crypt from the front door without a key, and only Reverend Leopold has a key. And no offence meant to the good Reverend, but there was no way he could've gotten through the gap leading to it."

"Did you see a door in that room?"

"Well, no… only the space in the roof, and that was barely big enough for a cat to get through. But what do you think, Poirot? How do you think those things got there?"

"With the lack of evidence, Hastings…" There was a slight pause, as Poirot seemed to struggle a little with part of his attire. "... it seems they got in the same way you did."

"Even with the gate under lock and key?"

"Can keys not be borrowed?"

"I suppose…" I sighed, feeling a little foolish. Ducking my head under the water, I gave my hair one last scrub to get the cobwebs out. When I arose from the water again, I noticed Poirot had appeared at the door, and was smiling at me fondly. I gave him a look, before grabbing a towel and getting out of the bath, slinging the towel loosely around my waist.

"Ah Hastings, if only we had the facts, perhaps your theory may have held water." Poirot remarked as I grabbed another towel to dry my hair with. I turned to give him another glowering look, but when my eyes fell on him I noticed his eyes flicking upwards from where he had been admiring my body. Caught in the act, Poirot flushed a delicate shade of pink, and I grinned mischievously at him.

"You'll be leaving to find your 'facts' soon, right?" I asked, turning back to dry my face and hair.

"Within the next few minutes, oui."

"Right. You enjoy your time there, then."

"And you stay safe." Poirot stepped forward and cupped my newly dried cheek. I looked up at his eyes, full of concern for me, and smiled softly.

"I shall try."

Poirot nodded slowly, before leaning down and chastely kissing me goodbye. I pouted as he pulled away, wanting something more substantial than that, but Poirot just smiled and said; "I will not have you drip on my clothes, Hastings."

I laughed at his fastidiousness, before raising a hand and indicating he could leave. The door shut softly behind him, and I began to dry myself more thoroughly, the remnants of a laugh settling pleasantly on my lips.

[BREAK]

Far too soon for my liking, seven o clock rolled around, marked by the ringing of church bells and the darkening skies. I stood outside David James' house, in an ordinary shirt and tie, wondering vainly if I could take a risk and go back to the inn. I knew that David would hunt me down if I did try to run, but that didn't stop my fanciful hopes.

Stepping up to the door, I grasped the brass knocker, and knocked quietly on the door. I had hoped that David might not hear the knocker and I therefore had an excuse to not be here, but no - he opened the door as soon as the first knock rang out, as if he were waiting by the entranceway for me.

"Aha, my dear Captain!" he cried, smiling warmly at me, a smile that I returned with a thin lipped smile of my own. "Come in, come in! Dinner is just on the table."

I stepped into the house, and was rather surprised at what I saw. I had expected the house to be minimalistic, as most ex army men's houses were, but David's home was large and opulent, with rich paintings and plush carpet, everything covered in a thin layer of glamour. A small chandelier hung in the centre of the room, the light within it shining through the glass and filling the room with dappled light.

David took my coat and hung it up in a side room, before ushering me into the dining room. This was as opulent as the entrance hall, with dark mahogany sideboards and glittering crystal tumblers dotted about the place. A roaring fire place was on the left, surrounded by leather settees, and to the right was a small mahogany dining table, upon which sat our dinner. Here, David made sure to pull out my chair for me, before sitting down himself and tucking in.

As much as I loathed to admit it, dinner was very good. It was not cooked by David himself, instead whipped up by one of his cooks, but it was very nice all the same - a tomato and brie pasta dish, followed by summer fruits and chocolate mousse. Our conversation over dinner was to do with what we had done between last seeing each other, and not once did he attempt to make a move on me, something I was eternally thankful for.

After dinner, we relaxed on his settee with a glass of wine each. When I first arrived here, I had no intention of drinking, wanting to keep my wits about me - however, given that he had not tried anything up until now, I had started to feel less anxious and more relaxed. I soon finished the glass he had poured me, and any thought of not wanting to be here had completely left my head.

"Enjoy that, Captain?" David asked as I drained my glass.

"Very much so. Is this local?"

"The vineyard's only down the road. I often help collect the grapes during the summer months, and as thanks they give my some of their wine."

"I say, that's very kind of them. And of you too."

David smiled. "It's the least I can do - it is they who rented this house to me when I first came here after the war. Another glass of wine, Captain?"

"If it's no trouble..."

"None at all, Captain - I was going to get myself one too." As he went to the drinks cabinet, I quickly checked the time. Half past ten. This would have to be the last drink, I thought to myself. This evening had been far less distasteful than I had expected it to be, and I found myself enjoying spending time with him. But I knew Poirot would worry if I came home late, especially since I had confided my fears about David to him beforehand. I wondered what he would say if I told him David and I had shared a pleasant evening.

"Here you are, Arthur." David handed me another glass of wine, before taking a seat next to me, sitting far closer than before. Ignoring my own discomfort at the proximity, I took a swig of my drink. Almost immediately I realised something was wrong - although this tasted like the wine we had before, there was something strange about the aftertaste.

"Anything the matter, Captain?" David asked lightly.

"No," I said quickly. "no, this is fine." I took another sip from the glass, thinking I must have been mistaken, but no - there was definitely an aniseed aftertaste with this wine, whereas there hadn't been in the other one. Aniseed was never used in this kind of wine, which could only mean...

David was trying to drug me.

"I say," I said suddenly, pointing up at something above the mantelpiece. "Is that a caiman, David?"

"It is." David replied, a little surprised at my abrupt question. "I received it from a military friend, after he was stationed in South America for a time."

"I've never seen one up close before. May I have a closer look."

"Of course! I'll get it down for you." David got up from the settee and reached up to get the beast. Whilst he was distracted, I switched our wine glasses, the anger coursing through my veins causing the glasses to shake as I picked them up. I could barely believe David would stoop so low as to try something like this! After the enjoyment of dinner, this was a bitter reminder of why I was unwilling to come here in the first place.

He brought me the crocodile, and I examined it with feigned interest, as he finished off the drugged wine. I took my time drinking mine, wanting to leave enough time for the drug to affect David's capabilities in case there was a struggle. Soon enough, I noticed David's movements were starting to become sluggish, and his head began to loll, and I decided it was time to leave.

"Look at the time!" I remarked, looking at my watch. "I really must leave, David, if I am to get any sleep before the morning."

David looked at me for a long while, and I wondered if he was actually in any state to comprehend my words. But soon enough he shook his head, and got up from the settee.

"You're right, Captain, I have kept you for far too long. Wait for me in the entrance hall - I'll bring your coat for you."

I nodded in acquiescence, before getting up myself and following David out of the room. I waited patiently for him to return with my coat, keeping my temper in check lest it boil over. When David returned with my coat, he insisted in helping put it on me, even though I didn't really want or need the help. He smiled at me once I was done, patting down the sleeves of my coat so that it didn't bunch up.

And that was when it happened. One moment I had been reaching for the door, the next I was being pinned to it by David, his lips crashing down to meet mine. For a brief moment I was lost in a memory - where I was trenches, bombs overhead and rough wall scraping into my back as David pushed me against it and made me forget the horror of warfare. But when David pulled away, and the illusion broke, and I found myself back in reality, furious and horrified at what had occurred.

Without another word, I kicked out, knocking David off balance. I quickly shoved him away, and it was a testament to how potent the drug he put in my drink was when he didn't even raise his hand in time to stop the fist that came flying towards his nose. He cried out and fell to the floor, grasping his face in his hands. In my fury, I did not care what he was feeling. Instead, I ripped open the door and stalked angrily out into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

I did not return immediately to the inn after the debacle that was dinner. I knew that once my temper had been released, I needed some time alone outdoors to cool off. Returning to the inn would only cage my fury, and I feared that if Poirot were there, he would be a recipient of my misplaced anger.

For a time I simply paced the streets, blindly taking turns here and there, but before long I found my feet aching from the tarmac, and dropped off the beaten path, wandering along a small dirt path that lead to a crooked stream. I sat on a jutting rock to give my feet a rest, turning my collar up to combat the cold spray that came from the water. I had not noticed how cool the night had gotten until I had arrived here - I knew that it wouldn't be long until I succumbed to my instinct and went back to the warm inn, but I resisted the idea for now, simply enjoying being out of doors.

I had barely been sat down for five minutes when I heard a rustling pair of footsteps coming down the nearby embankment. Fearing it could be David coming back to find me, I ducked down and hid behind the rock I was previously sat on. The footsteps came closer, and I was able to discern voices - one a piping voice of a young boy, the other a deeper, more guttural sound of a young man.

"...And next week, I'll get my pocket money," The young man was saying."and then I'll be able to get that wireless in the corner shop-"

"You'll have your very own wireless then!" The little boy interrupted. "You could listen to whatever you wanted, whenever you felt like it!"

"That's right." The young man laughed, a sharp sound not unlike a dog barking.

"I wish I had my own wireless," the small boy continued, envy colouring his voice. "Mama only ever uses the radio to check the weather. It would be so cool to see what else is on Radio Lyon..."

The source of the voices came into view - the older boy stepped out from behind a wall, carrying the younger boy in his arms. The young man could not have been older than 17, with youthful milk coloured skin and soft brown hair that came down to his shoulders. The boy he was carrying was far younger - around thirteen years old, of darker colouration, but with black hair styled in the same way He obviously looked up to the older boy, seeing as they both wore similar things, and there was clear adoration in the young boys eyes. I wondered vaguely if they were related.

"You know, if you're good, maybe I'll bring the wireless to our little meetings in the crypt. Our little secret, you know?"

"Really?! That would be amazing!"

"Mmhmm. But you've got to be good tonight or I won't bring it."

"I will! I will be good!" The young boy seemed to hum with excitement. "Are you sure Mama said it was ok to go to the crypt tonight, though? I don't want to get you in trouble..."

"I asked her specifically. I can remember it clear as day." The older boy assumed a high pitched voice as he mimicked the conversation. "'Madam D'Echelle, can we go down to the crypt? Yes of course, Daniel! Remember to take these bottles of cola with you.'''

"Mama gave you cola?! She never gives me any!"

"Yes she did, and you can have some when we reach the crypt. Now lets stop chatting and start walking."

The boys crossed the stream and vanished into the undergrowth, the older boys shoes squelching as they were submerged in the stream. I picked myself up from where I was crouched behind the rock and watched them go, feeling that I had just learnt something significant, but could not think what.

[BREAK]

It was nearer midnight by the time I returned to the hotel. There wasn't anyone in the bar tonight, and so I got back to the room undisturbed, something that I was thankful for, since I was in no mood for small talk. My anger had by now drained away, leaving behind a headache and an awareness of what I had hurt during my altercation with David. My back had begun to burn, and my hand was throbbing something dreadful, and all I wanted was a stiff drink and a nice sleep.

I poured myself a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, the tinkling of liquid hitting glass soothing my headache. The cool tumblr took the edge away from the pain in my hand as I grasped it and drunk deeply. The burn from the brandy brought clarity to my head, and I was able to think clearer about the events of tonight.

The big thing that I could not stop thinking about was those two boys I had seen near the stream. Who were they? They spoke of going to the crypt - were these boys the owners of the cushions and campfire in the secret room? It seemed very likely - from what they said, the crypt was a favourite haunt of theirs. But how did they even get in there? At this time of night, there was no way they could ask Reverend Leopold for the key without arousing suspicion.

These questions chased each other around my head, until I could make neither head nor tail of them and my head began to ache even more. I forced myself to stop thinking about it for a few moments, instead draining the last of my brandy and putting the cup down for washing up later. The pain in my hand returned full force, and I briefly thought about David and the dinner catastrophe.

The anger flared in the pit of my stomach again, however it was quickly swamped by feelings of guilt. Although the man had tried to drug me, I felt incredibly guilty for my reaction to it. I had essentially struck a man whilst he was down, purposely weakened him so that I may vent my anger on him without retribution. I knew that I could've gotten away from him without punching him, and yet I did it. And judging by the pain in my hand, I must have hit him hard. I might have even broken his nose.

As I thought of what if's and other possibilities, I did not notice Poirot approach me until he was almost beside me. I noted he was dressed in his pyjamas - he must have gone to bed before I came in.

"Oh hullo, Poirot." I said. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"Non, I was already awake." Poirot replied quietly. "When did you arrive back?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"David James kept you for that long?"

"No, he… I…" I sighed, absentmindedly rubbing my injured hand. Poirot looked at me worriedly, before taking my elbow and leading me to his bedroom. Here, he assisted me in dressing for bed, hands carefully buttoning my pyjama shirt with practiced ease. We got into bed, and I immediately curled up around him, resting my head on his shoulder like this morning. In this far more intimate position, I found it easier to talk about emotional events such as the dinner with David James.

"Tell me what occured, mon brave." Poirot murmured, his hand stroking my hair soothingly.

"Dinner was fine." I began hesitantly. "He was friendly, but not overly so. It was ok."

"And then?"

"We went for wine. The first glass was good. We spoke of things - life after the military, you know, neutral topics. And then he got me a second glass of wine… It was drugged."

"Drugged?" Poirot's hand froze in my hair, and I could feel the anger that was broiling inside the little man's head. I nodded, and nudged my head against his hand until he began soothing my hair again.

"I didn't drink much of it though. When he wasn't looking, I switched our glasses."

"And you left soon after?"

"Yes- well, no."

"Comment?"

"David insisted on showing me out. But before we left, he pushed me against the door and…"

Poirot's hand stopped stroking my hair again. He was no longer angry, but furious - I could feel him quiver in righteous indignation. I felt warmed by his obvious regard for me, but an angry Poirot was not one I wished to deal with right now.

"It's fine though, Poirot - he was drugged, and I managed to fight him off." I paused, before adding; "I feel guilty though?"

"You do?" Poirot asked, anger briefly replaced by confusion.

"When I was fighting him off, I think I might have broken his nose. I didn't need to do that. I feel like I struck him when he was down."

"David James is a dangerous man, Hastings! You had to escape!"

"I know, but… I feel like I struck him out of anger, not out of a need to defend myself."

There was silence, before I felt Poirot's lips press gently against my forehead. "Your guilt is misplaced, mon chou. These were not ordinary circumstances. David James was willing to do anything to subdue you. You had a right to your anger, and you had to fight or you would've been hurt. Ease your conscience, my friend."

I hummed quietly in response, not really knowing what to say. Poirot resumed stroking my hair quietly, and it was in this setting that I found myself drifting off to sleep amidst dreams of fighting and guilt.


	7. Chapter 7

Waking up the next day was not the pleasant awakening of the morning before.

Almost immediately upon waking up, I noticed that everything hurt. My hand felt like an army had trodden all over it, and my head felt like it was filled with cotton wool. I was uncomfortably positioned against Poirot, which didn't help matters. I rolled off him and onto my back, but upon doing so I realised that my back burned something dreadful, causing me to hiss in pain each time I rearranged my body.

My discomfort seemed to awaken Poirot, who immediately looked over at me with a confused expression. I smiled wanly at him, but a slight movement in my arm caused another spasm of liquid fire to run down my spine, and I felt my face contort in pain. When I opened my eyes again, Poirot's expression had changed to one of concern.

"M'fine." I murmured. "Just my back."

Poirot did not look reassured at the news. Being careful not to jostle me, he edged closer and took my hand in his. Unfortunately for him, it was my bad hand, and I let out a grunt of pain and immediately pulled my hand away. A flash of hurt briefly appeared on hs face, and I immediately felt so guilty that I took his hand again, this time in a gentler grip. Poirot looked at me, then down at my hand, and blanched at what he saw.

"Hastings, your hand…"

I looked down at my hand, and saw immediately why he was so worried. Far from it's natural tan colouring, my hand was now a mottled green. My little finger was bent at an odd angle, and most of my knuckles were swollen and bruised. I tried twisting and bending each of my fingers in turn, but the pain was too great to turn the different joints more than a few degrees each way. My hand was well and truly out of action.

"How does it feel, mon brave?" Poirot asked quietly.

"It hurts." I admitted after a pause. "I shall have to bandage it before we go anywhere - I think I have a first aid kit somewhere…"

"Would it not be best to go to le docteur?"

"It's not that bad - and I don't want to make a fuss."

"Hastings, you are hurt. Gravement. You need a docteur."

"Poirot, please…" I sighed, and rubbed my face with my uninjured hand. "Please just leave it. I know you're worried, but I will be fine."

Poirot stared at me with a look that I fully recognized as him thinking of the many different ways that I was being stupid right now. I resented this - perhaps it would've been prudent to visit a doctor to have my hand seen and fixed, but this injury was my fault. I almost felt as if it were punishment for not holding my temper.

Unable to stand Poirot's judging gaze any longer, I rolled onto my side and curled up with my back to him, biting my lip when my back protested. Poirot sighed in response, his disapproval and worry conveying though that one simple sound. I ignored him.

[BREAK]

We breakfasted in a tense silence. My hand was now covered in white gauze, and I had taken an aspirin to help ease the pain in my back, so it was not too uncomfortable to move around. Poirot had simply frowned and shook his head when he saw me binding my hand, but said nothing - he knew very well how stubborn I could be, and when pushing a matter would yield nothing.

"How did your meeting go last night?" I asked, breaking the quiet that enveloped us.

"It was enjoyable." Poirot replied, not looking up from his breakfast. "The conversations that were held were most enlightening."

"Oh yes? You found some clues to the mystery, then?"

"I did."

"Would you care to enlighten me, or are you just going to keep them to yourself?"

"I think… I shall keep them to myself for now. I must have time to straighten the facts in my mind."

"Suit yourself." I turned back to my breakfast and stabbed my poached eggs with a vengeance, stung by Poirot's refusal to share his secrets. We were silent for some time more, each absorbed in eating and being frustrated with the other. Before I had come down for breakfast, I had feared David would've been here like yesterday. But now, him being here would've been a welcome respite from this awkward quiet.

"You know, I think I may know something you would find interesting." I said, once I had mutilated my eggs to a satisfactory standard.

"Oh yes?" He sounded disinterested, but I knew he was paying attention - he always paid attention to everything.

"Yes. I found out who's been visiting the crypt." Poirot looked up at my with a surprised expression - the hungry glimmer in his eye showed me that this was something that he did not know.

"You do?"

"Yes."He looked at me expectantly, but I decided to make him wait a little, choosing to finish off what was left of my eggs. I could feel his impatience from across the table, and I allowed myself a little grin.

"Hastings." Poirot said once I was finished. He gave me a steely look, and I knew not to make him wait any longer lest I incur his wrath. I took a sip of coffee before explaining what I saw the night before.

"It's a pair of boys - one was in his late teens, quite thin, with brown hair. Called Daniel. The other was about twelve or thirteen - I think he may have been Romani in origin. His mother's surname was D'Echelle."

"And you know this…"

"I saw them after I left David last night. Daniel was carrying the other boy across the river. They said they were going to the crypt - and by the way they said it, it wasn't the first time."

Poirot nodded, deep in thought. I observed him as I drank more of my coffee, wondering what on earth he could be thinking now. What had he learnt last night at the Rotary club?

"Thank you Hastings, that does answer a few of my queries." Poirot finally remarked, noticing my watchful gaze. I raised an eyebrow, silently asking him to elaborate. He smiled at my curiosity.

"Ah Hastings, always with your innate curiosity. You see, I did meet Madame D'Echelle at this meeting. The little boy is very likely her child, Eliot."

"Oh yes?"

"Oui. But Marion D'Echelle is a most remarkable woman in her own right. She is from this village - however her husband is a gypsy traveller, and is no longer with her."

"He left her to travel? What a cad!"

"Une moment, Hastings, there s a little more to the story. You see, Marion D'Echelle and her husband fully intended to travel together, and they did so for many years. However, soon after their tenth year together, Marion fell pregnant with Eliot."

"I see…"

"This in itself was not a problem - many Romani women were able to travel whilst being with child. And so Eliot was born nine months later, but…"

"But?"

"About a year after Eliot was born, it became clear that he would be unable to travel. You see, Eliot cannot walk."

"I say…"

"Marion and her husband made a decision to part - her husband continued to travel, whilst Marion returned here to raise Eliot."

"On her own?"

"Not exactly. Her husband returns with his family once a year and visits her."

"Well, at least he's coming to visit them." I replied, drinking some more of my coffee. "But what about the other boy? Daniel?"

"It is very likely that this Daniel is the same Daniel I met last night - another adopted son of Reverend Leopold?"

"Another adopted son? How many does he have?"

"He has two sons and a daughter, I believe - Bryant, Daniel and Theodora."

"And you've met them all?"

"Non, not all. Theodora was visiting her blood relatives over in the Romani camp at the time of the gathering, and was unable to come."

"She is Romani too?"

"Mais oui. None of Reverend Leopold's children are French, you see - they are all adopted. He has no wife, and therefore no children made of his own flesh and blood."

"Wow." I leant back, trying to take in all this new information that I'd just been given. "That is an interesting family. I suppose it explains how Daniel is able to get into the crypt, with Daniel being his son… it would be easy for him to borrow the keys of his father."

"That is true, Hastings."

"I don't know what this has to do with the case though. How do two boys with a penchant for sneaking around in the late hours have to do with this?"

"I do not know, Hastings, but I have a feeling…"

"Your famous intuition talking, right?"

"Yes Hastings, intuition. And maybe a fact I have long forgotten…"

"Poirot, you're speaking in riddles. What are you getting at?"

"Nothing Hastings." Poirot finished the last of his breakfast and stood. "It is simply a thought I have. Come, mon cher, there is work to be done."

"Where are we going?" I asked, draining my coffee mug and standing to join him.

"We are going back to the church - I would like to speak to Mademoiselle Theodora. I believe she may know something of value…"


	8. Chapter 8

I had not noticed how early the hour was when we left the inn, but when we arrived at the church, the service had only just begun. Everyone had already settled, so upon entering the main prayer hall, Poirot and I took the back pews. Poirot quickly busied himself with his hymn book, and I took the time to study my surroundings.

The first thing I noticed was that the room was heavily decorated. There was not a wall that wasn't covered in some kind of mural or painting - each Biblical in nature. Candles hung from the vaulted ceiling in glass jars, painted with stripes and curls of colour. A bronze statue of the crucifiction of Christ hung above the altar, surrounded by French inscriptions of some kind. The window behind the altar was made entirely of stained glass - I could tell from my basic Biblical study that it depicted the betrayal of Judas.

The altar itself took up most of the space at the back of the church, and looked to be hand carved wood. This too was covered in decoration - brass goblets and offering plates bedecked the low tables, whilst on the higher platforms there sat several baskets of peonies and other flowers, each neatly arranged in order of size. A small alms bowl sat on top of it - there were already some alms already in it, even though none had been asked for.

"Good morning, brothers and sisters." A sonorous voice broke through my admiration of the building. I looked up at the pulpit - Reverend Leopold stood there, looking tall and mighty, a large tomb on the stand in front of him. "Today we shall be reading from the Book of Ruth, starting from the beginning, on page…"

There was a brief shuffling of books - I noticed many of the more devout looking Christians had copies of their own bible and would be reading alongside the Reverends reading. Others, such as Poirot simply settled into the cushioned pews and prepared to listen. I too settled into the seat - however, when Reverend Leopold started reading the verses in French, I quickly switched off, letting the warm, melodious French flow over me like a comforting blanket.

Religion had never been a major part of my life - at least, not organized religion. Years of being sat in a stuffy pew with ten other young boys whilst a priest droned on about the sins of man were enough to put me off going to church for several years. It was only when Poirot came into my life that I began going to church regularly, on the major holidays and most Sundays.

Reverend Leopold's service was far better than the ones I suffered as a child. They reminded me of how my mother used to tell the stories of Jesus - calmly, with a delicate touch that made you realise that this was an important text. Although I could not understand all of what he was saying, I recognised phrases and snippets, and my head was able to connect the French phrases with the English text I knew. Poirot would've been proud at my understanding of his mother tongue - he liked to hear me speak it.

Speaking of Poirot… I sneaked a glance over at him during a break in the reading. He was thoughtfully gazing up at Reverend Leopold, listening intently. He gave me a quick smile when he noticed me looking at him, before returning his attention to Reverend Leopold. I knew that Poirot was a Roman Catholic by faith - it was quite a surprise when I found out, seeing as most Catholics despised anyone with a relationship such as ours. I wondered if he had been raised that way, or if he had become distant like I had.

There were many things I still had to learn about him, and yet I felt like I knew him well. I thought back over our argument earlier in the morning, about my hand. I knew he was overprotective over me, and tended to coddle the health of both of us. And perhaps I shouldn't have been so stubborn about it. Although it didn't hurt as much now, I knew by the afternoon, it would be sore, as would my back. Perhaps I should see a doctor later today, if we had the time.

"And if we may stand for the final hymn…" Reverend Leopold's voice interrupted my thoughts. I stood, as did Poirot and most of the congregation. I noticed that I did not have a hymn book, and had no idea what we were singing, so I sidled closer to Poirot and read his over his shoulder. Poirot put the book between us so that I could see as well as he could, and I whispered my thanks as the piano music swelled.

The hymn was a French one I did not recognise, but I believed I sang it reasonably well, even though I was sure I had butchered over half the words in it. Following this was a small announcements section - a reminder about the summer fete, a congratulatory remark about a recent marriage held in the church, a recent birth that occurred during the night (there was a spontaneous round of applause at this), among other more menial things. The service was then wrapped up with a collection of alms for the Romani camp, to aid them in buying medical supplies for their travels. Poirot pressed a silver franc into my hand to place in the alms bowl, and I too added my own contribution, before passing it along the line.

Once the service was over, tea and coffee were served in the antechamber off the side of the prayer hall. Having not had tea since arriving here from England, I practically leapt at the chance for a cup. Poirot tried and failed to hide his amusement as I savoured the drink like one would a glass of good wine, but I did not pay him any heed, simply enjoying the hot English beverage that had until now eluded my taste buds.

"Mister Poirot, Captain Hastings!" We turned to look at the source of the voice. Reverend Leopold made his way through the congregation, his arm around a young girl and pulling her with him.

"Reverend Leopold, that was a most interesting service." Poirot remarked as the reverend and his friend came within talking distance.

"Thank you. The story of Ruth is one of the most interesting reads in Biblical canon, I find. I can only apologize that your English friend here could not understand as well as we could."

"That's quite alright," I replied. "I understood some of it. I've never heard the Bible read in a language other than English or Latin, so it was quite the experience."

"That is good, Captain." He smiled at me before turning to the girl beside him. "Monsieur Poirot, this is Theodora, my daughter. You wished to speak to her?"

"Ah yes. It is very nice to meet you, mademoiselle Theodora."

"You too, monsieur Poirot. I've heard much about you." Theodora replied in a thickly accented voice, which surprised me - almost all the people I had met here either had English accents, or very light French ones. She was of average height, but her shoulders were broad, and her black hair was cut short. The callouses and burns on her tanned hands and arms showed that she was used to manual labour, but her clothes were all feminine skirts and ruffles.

"I would like to ask you about the theft that recently occurred here, if I may." Poirot said, drawing my attention back to him.

"You may ask, monsieur, but there's no guarantee I'll know anything of any importance."

"Pas du tout, madamoiselle. Where were you the night of the theft?"

"I was staying at Papa's house, with Bryant. We were playing Monopoly all night, until father came back from tidying the church with the most ghastly look on his face, saying we'd been broken into."

"Daniel was not there?"

"No, Daniel was looking after Eliot that night. He helps Marion with caring for him every week, and that night he'd gone over to their house."

"I see. Did you hear anything around the town after the theft? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing suspicious, no. Daniel was twitchy, but he tends to be when he's stressed. He was out a lot looking after Eliot the following week, taking him out of his house and around town."

"His mother was fine with this?"

"To be honest, I think she was glad to have him out of her hands. You see, there's been talk in the camp, and it's not for young ears."

"Talk? What has been said?"

"It's an old story around these parts. You see, the church is built on old Romani soil. The land has a rather gruesome legend associated with it - and the theft of all those keys, the digging up of the graves… It's got people talking about it again."

"Can you retell this story to us?"

"Not in it's entirety. There are some parts I have not been told, and other parts I have forgotten. However, if you ask Emilian, he'll tell you."

"Emilian? I do not believe I have met this man…"

"Oh no, you probably haven't. He rarely leaves the camp. I can introduce you, if you'd like - I'm planning to visit them tomorrow morning."

"That would be most acceptable. At what time are you leaving?"

"10 o' clock, straight after service. I can meet you here, if you want?"

"That would be acceptable, mademoiselle Theodora. Until then?"

"Until then."


	9. Chapter 9

I mentioned to Poirot my desire to visit a doctor, and the smile he bestowed upon me made me wonder why I had ever refused in the first place. He insisted on going with me, however - he claimed it was so he could translate what I was saying to the French doctor, but I was pretty sure it was because he liked to make sure I was taken care of.

The doctor I saw was a young man called Doctor Christophe. He was tall and blonde, soft spoken but firm. It turned out that he spoke English well enough to discuss medical terms and injuries - seeing as the town was a hotspot for soldiers and gypsies alike, it was a good idea to learn a few different languages when in the medical profession. I explained the problem with my back and my hand, and he quickly got to work examining me, hand first. As he unwrapped my hand, he complimented me on my handiwork with the gauze, before studying the lattice of bruises around each of my fingers.

He declared my little finger to have been dislocated, but due to the quality of my bandaging skill, it had slid back into place and was healing nicely. He only needed to strap it properly to my other finger, before he took some salve and new gauze to wrap it all up again. During all this, Poirot, sat quietly at my side, holding my elbow in comfort, and wincing whenever Doctor Christophe's inadvertently caused me pain.

The next part of the procedure involved me taking my shirt off so that Doctor Christophe could examine my back. He asked Poirot to leave during this so that I may have my privacy. Poirot looked quite put out by this, but an off the cuff mention that he may see me shirtless later on that evening sent him away with a smile on his face. Once Doctor Christophe and I were alone, I quickly took off my shirt and stood in front of the mirror as instructed.

Looking over my shoulder, I could see exactly why my back hurt so much. The upper left side of my back, the part of my back that hit the door first, was black and blue, with heavy swelling around my shoulder blade. The rest of my back wasn't as bad - most of the injuries on them were lighter and less defined as my left side. I saw Doctor Christophe's eyes widen at the sight of my back, but he hid his surprise quickly and proceeded to inspect my bruises.

"This is quite an impressive injury, Captain." Doctor Christophe said, as he carefully poked and prodded my back. "How long have you nursed it yourself?"

"Only since last night."

"You slept with it like this?"

"Yes."

"You must have a high pain tolerance, Captain. I know men who wouldn't even be standing with an injury like this, let alone walking about!"

"I did take some aspirin this morning for it. But being in the army had its… downsides, shall we say." Christophe nodded in understanding, before returning to inspecting the injury.

After about five minutes of looking and having me raise and lower my arm, Doctor Christophe declared that my back was not actually that badly injured - although there were many bruises, I had only pulled one of my shoulder muscles, which was where most of the swelling was. Still, he sent me out with a package of aspirin and a salve to reduce the swelling in my hand and on my back, with the hope that I would be fully healed within a few days.

When I stepped outside the office, I was surprised to find that Poirot was not waiting outside it for me. I wondered where he had gotten to - there were not many places to go in this hospital, and even less places that would be interesting to Poirot. I wandered back towards the waiting room and looked around there. There was barely anyone here either - only the receptionist and a pair of young boys, who after a second of looking at them, I managed to identify as Daniel and Eliot.

I asked the receptionist if she had seen Poirot - she mentioned he was speaking to another patient who'd come in a little after we had arrived. I wondered if this patient was anything to do with the case at hand - seeing as both Daniel and Eliot were here, I wondered if Eliot's mother Marion was the patient Poirot was speaking to. Content to let Poirot do whatever he was doing, I quietly settled down and watched Daniel and Eliot play with a few building blocks that they'd found in the room.

When Poirot returned from his travels around the hospital, I realised that whatever he had been doing had nothing to do with the case. I had moved from the chair to the floor, where I had been roped into building a tower with Eliot and Daniel, so I did not see who was with him until I picked myself up from the floor and looked properly. And then my stomach dropped.

David James was in a deeply aggravated conversation with Poirot, his hand gripping Poirot's arm in a vice like grip. And Poirot looked very, very angry.

A plume of anger and possessiveness flared up inside me. David had no right to be talking to Poirot, especially not in the way that he was right now. I was very tempted to storm over to them, rip his hand off my friends arm, then proceed to take Poirot back to the inn and kiss away the anger David James had induced in him, However, I had more self control than that, and so the only part of my plan that I continued with was stalking over to them like an angry cat.

"Good afternoon, David." I said politely, the politeness only vaguely hiding the anger in my voice. Poirot looked at me, a little concerned, but I gave him a quick smile to show it was not he I was angry with.

"Ah, my dear Captain! What a surprise to be seeing you here!" David's jovial tone indicated that he either didn't notice my anger, or ignored it. I was leaning towards the latter answer - I noted he took a small step back when I arrived, and that his hand kept creeping up towards his nose, which was purple and swollen. It seemed I had in fact managed to break it.

"What do you want?"

"I was trying to beg your friend here to let you free for a few hours so that I can make sure you are not seriously injured after last night's… incident. But he tells me you will be busy up until the day you leave!"

"That is true - we do have a case, David. And it is very time consuming. I won't be able to take any time off it at all."

"You are quite sure about that?"

"Yes, I am. Plus, I've just seen the doctor about my hand, and he says that it will heal by the end of the week, so there's no need to check my injuries."

"If you say so, Captain…"

"I do. Come on Poirot, we'd better get back to investigating this case…"

I took Poirot's elbow and tugged him towards the door. He got the message and silently brushed past David James and headed for the door. I went to follow him, but David suddenly encased my injured arm in a strong grip. I hissed in pain, and tried to break free, but he was much too strong for me to escape.

"Listen, pretty boy," David murmured, putting his face right up to mine. "You come see me once your little French owner lets you off the leash, alright? I can't stand those controlling types."

He let me go, and walked away, leaving me wondering if he realised that it was he who was the controlling one.

[BREAK]

"I still can't believe he had the gall to say such rot!"

It was late in the evening, and Poirot and I were getting ready for bed. I had enlisted his help in applying the salve to my back, and we were currently in the living room, Poirot standing in shirtsleeves and me sat on a footstool completely shirtless, with Poirot gently spreading the salve across my injured back. I was still infuriated at callous words David had inflicted on Poirot and myself that afternoon. I had already told Poirot of what David had told me after holding me back in the hospital, and I could tell he too was angry, but he hid it well under a layer of calm acceptance.

"Nor me, Hastings. But he is a bitter man, can you not see?"

"I know that he cannot seem to forget the two of us together, but to imply that you are controlling and that I'm only here because you make me stay is- is absurd! I'm here because I-" I stopped myself from speaking, not knowing what I was going to say.

"You what, Hastings?" Poirot asked quietly, looking at me. With a deep breath, I turned to face Poirot so that he stood between my legs, and looped my arms around his waist to pull him close. I kissed him slowly, searchingly, pouring all of my feelings for him into this one kiss.

"I'm here because I love you." I said quietly. "And I enjoy our time together."

"I understand." Poirot replied quietly, a loving smile creeping upon his face. "And I feel the same way about you. Monsieur David James is a despicable man, but we must rise above his words, mon cher."

"I know, I know… I don't like him talking about you like that though. It's not ok."

"Pas du tout, ma cheri, I have heard worse. But as long as I am with you, they will not bother me."

I noticed Poirot's hands were clean of salve now, but still he was stroking my shoulders and chest with his broad hands. Not that I was complaining - his ministrations were very soothing and not unwelcome in the slightest. I scooted backwards so that he was also able to stroke my chest. Getting the gist of what I wanted, Poirot slid his arms around me and began to stroke my nipples and chest, playing with the fine chest hair that was there.

"You know," I said, my voice heavy and low. "You better understand what you're starting here, Poirot, because I expect you finish it." Poirot smiled against my neck.

"I shall, mon cher," he murmured fondly, kissing my neck softly. "But only when you are healed, yes?"

I groaned in disappointment. Poirot laughed pleasantly, pressing one last kiss to my neck before unwinding himself from me and leaving me be. I watched his retreating back with a mixture of amusement and frustration.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning, we awoke bright and early in time for church service. After a reading from the book of Paul, plus a cup of tea, we met up with Theodora and headed for the camp.

The camp was a well organized set up of wagons and horses. Small nicknacks such as toys and saucepans were dotted around in the grass, but for the most part the camp was very neat. The inhabitants of the camp generally sat on the steps of their wagons, or milled about between them, chatting amongst one another in their own mother tongue. A few looked our way with suspicious glances, but for the most part we were left alone up until we came up to the man known as Emilian.

My first impression of Emilian was that he looked remarkably similar to Theodora, leading me to think that they were perhaps related. He was broad of shoulder, with black hair that went to his middle back, and burned, calloused skin. His face was mostly covered by a thick beard, but underneath that was a pair of glittering blue eyes.

Theodora murmured something to Emilian, who raised his eyebrows, looking between us and her. She said something else, before patting his shoulder and walking away. Emilian nodded slowly, as if accepting something in his head, before turning to eye us critically.

“My niece says that you’re a detective,” he said, in the same thick accent Theodora had.

“That I am.” Poirot replied coolly, calmly staring back at him. Emilian grunted and shook his head, sending his hair flying.

“Knew the police would blame us. We weren’t even there at the theft - I don’t know what they’re trying to pin on us now.”

“They are not trying to pin anything on you, monsieur. I do not come here to question you about the theft.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I come here in search of a story, concerning the church. I believe that you may know of it?”

Emilian looked at us thoughtfully, chewing his bottom lip and furrowing his brow. “I do know of it…” he said slowly. “...however it is not well known outside of our camp. I am surprised you know of it.”

“Could you tell us the entire story?”

“I could. But you’d better settle down before I tell it to you - it is quite long.” He scooted up the stairs, leaving enough room for Poirot and I to sit down. Poirot carefully lay his handkerchief on the step before sitting down, and I sat behind him on one of the higher steps.

“Several decades ago,” Emilian began quietly. “The hill that the church stands on was bare. It was common land - the locals called it Romani land, for it was the only place in the town that we could keep our horses and park our wagons. The townspeople did not mind us being there - in fact, they enjoyed the extra trade we brought with us.”

“Sounds like a good setup.” I remarked.

“It was. However, not everyone was happy. There were several religious leaders who claimed the land was sacred and should not be lived on by the likes of us. You know of the crypt that lies on the grounds of the church?”

“Yes.”

“That was said to be the final resting place of Saint Maudet. The religious leaders wanted to venerate the good Saint on her death ground, but could not do so because it was common land and we had traditional rights on the land. They could not build there without our permission, and our ancestors were not willing to give it.”

“The priests began to circulate propaganda about us, about how we were desecrating sacred land and were disobeying the law of God. They were trying to get the town to force us out themselves, or to get the mayor to revoke our rights, but the town knew us too well to believe them. That’s when the priests took direct action.”

“What happened?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know the answer.

“First of all, they approached our elders, and told them if we didn’t give up our rights, there would be “divine intervention”. Our ancestors laughed at them, knowing that the power of the divine cannot be commanded by priests or vicars. They didn’t expect the attack on the camp that followed.”

“Attacked? They were attacked by priests?!”

“Not the priests themselves, no, but almost certainly people acting on their behalf. No-one knows who they were. Police? Military? Thugs? Either way, during the night they came in, armed with petrol and knives. They set the camp alight, dragged panicked Romani adult and children from their wagons and raped them, dismembered and shot the people that tried to fight back, mutilated and tortured our horses beyond repair…”

“All my people could do was take a non-crazed horse and flee the camp. But even that didn’t work. There were men waiting outside the camp inferno, armed with muskets and powder. Anyone who tried leaving the camp was shot on the spot. Only a few managed to  be smuggled out to safety.”

“That’s terrible…” I said softly, my brain reconstructing the scene with alarming clarity. The heat of the smoke, the screams of children, the bitter tang of blood and powder that infiltrated every corner of the land. It was a horrendous crime, one that made me feel sick to my stomach.

“That is not all of the story, sir.” Emilian said, rubbing his forehead. “From the few that escaped, there came the story of one woman, which earned her the greatest amount of respect.”

“Her name was Arabelle. She was one of the first roused by the fire, and raised the alarm. She was also one of the first people to realise that they couldn’t simply run from the camp. It is told that she hid her greatest treasure in a small chest and hid the key somewhere in the grounds - however, before she could run, she was spotted by a few of the thugs.”

“They tried to force her to open the chest, and when she refused, they raped her, beat her, set fire to her clothes, cut her vocal chords before leaving her for dead. By some miracle, one of the fleeing Romani found her, and managed to smuggle her out.”

“Good lord…” If I had thought before had been bad, it was nothing compared to this. I could only admire the courage of this Arabelle to keep her secret away from the wrong hands.

“It is needless to say the remaining Roma surrendered their rights to the land, which allowed the priests to build the church. During the clean-up of the land, Arabelle’s chest was discovered - however, no-one had the key. The chest passed from person to person, until it was finally buried alongside a well-loved abbess back in 1856.”

“There are few accounts that mention the box again. Father Edouard, a monk from these parts, mentions discovering an ornamental key hidden in the grounds back in 1901, which is very likely the key to the chest - however, the graveyard has shifted so much within the past few years, I doubt he would’ve been able to find the chest. Father Edouard mentioned using the key as a decorative item in his later years, but the location of that has vanished too.”

“I say… that is quite the tale. Do you think the person digging up the graves is trying to find the chest?”

“I wish them luck if they are. Unless they’ve got some information I haven’t seen, there isn’t a chance in Hell that they’ll find it without digging up the entire graveyard.”

I looked over at Poirot to see what he thought of the entire thing. He was thinking deeply, brow furrowed as he stared into the distance, the concentration in his features evident. I nudged him to bring him out of his reverie.

“Penny for your thoughts, Poirot?” I asked. He smiled a little at the idiom, before his face formed a more somber expression.

“I have many thoughts, Hastings, none of which are pleasant to think of but one must think in these circumstances. Monsieur Emilien-” Emilien started a little at being greeted so formally. “-you mentioned that not many people knew of this tale.”

“They don’t - the religious powers that be suppressed any mention of it among the white folk. Of course, couldn’t stop us from talking.”

“So it is unlikely for any of the town’s people to know of it?”

“There are some people who know it, I’m sure of it. Theodora knows some, Reverend Leopold knows of the entire story… I know that young boy Eliot listened in on a retelling of that story - gave him nightmares for weeks - so it’s likely his mother and his friend Daniel knows of the story too.”

“I’m guessing you know Eliot quite well.” I remarked. Emilien gave me a twisted smile.

“In a small camp like this, everyone knows everyone else. Even so, I know Eliot better than most people - he is my son.”

This came as a surprise to me, who hadn’t equated the man who left his wife and children to travel and this man sat on the steps. It seems Poirot however had already figured this out, and was nodding thoughtfully. I looked at him, wondering how on earth did he know about this, but he gave me alook that told me he would explain all later. We thanked and said our goodbyes to Emilien, before traipsing back to the inn for lunch, each lost in our own thoughts.

 


	11. Chapter 11

The trip back to the inn was uneventful - the streets were empty, seeing as everyone was probably working. Poirot and I did not speak - I was thinking of how utterly ordinary Emilian seemed for a runaway father, whilst Poirot was thinking about Lord knows what. For some reason, in my mind, runaway father's tended to be immature, cowardly creatures, who spent most of their time out on the town with other women. My father was one of these men, having walked out of my mother's life when I was seven, leaving my mother to care for me and my three sisters. However, Emilian seemed… despondent. Pessimistic. It was strange, that after abandoning the duties of child care, he was not of higher spirits.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that when I entered the inn, I walked straight into someone who was trying to come out at the same time. I began apologizing profusely to whoever it was, but the person seemed it have other ideas, grabbing my arm in a familiar vice like grip. I looked up into the pleased face of David James.

He opened his mouth as if to speak to me, but I quietly stepped to the side and allowed Poirot to enter the inn after me. At the sight of the little man, David's mouth closed with an audible, angry snap. Poirot looked up at the sound, and met the thinly veiled fury held in the face of David James.

"Monsieur." Poirot greeted, and I shivered at the icy sharpness of his voice. David gave him a funny head jerk but said nothing. The two men stared at one another for an incalculably long time, the animosity between them laying thick in the air like noxious smog. I feared that I would somehow have to separate the two men had they watched each other much longer, but suddenly David gave a snort of laughter. He looked at me, before releasing my arm and stalking out into the midday sun, nearly knocking Poirot over in the process.

"Are you alright, Poirot?" I asked, rushing to his side as soon as David left. Poirot batted away my concerned hands with an air of long suffering frustration.

"Hastings, I am fine."

"But he pushed you pretty hard, are you sure-"

"Hastings." He gave me a look of pure annoyance.

"Sorry."

"Come, let us partake in le dejeuner. We have some matters to discuss."

Lunch was a cold spread of ham, crusty baguettes and various types of preserves and cheeses. To start, we did not speak much, only enjoying the food put before us. I was busy trying to decide the best way to balance pickled onions on one slice of baguette when Poirot put down his knife and looked at me with a curious glint in his eye.

"Hastings, what did you think of Monsieur Emilien?"

"I don't know what I think of him," I replied slowly, putting down the slice of baguette I had been loading with cheese. "As much as I despise what he did to Eliot and his mother, he doesn't seem like the sort who wanted to do such a thing. He seems depressed."

"Oui, I had too noticed his affliction. However, there was something odd in what he said that has me curious."

"Oh yes?"

"He said in his tale that the crypt was the final resting place of Saint Maudet, you recall?"

"I do. I was rather surprised such a decrepit old crypt was the resting place of a saint-"

"Exactement, Hastings! Do you not see?" I looked at him, completely confused about what he was getting at. He sighed in frustration at my ignorance. "If the crypt was so important, so revered that they slaughtered hundreds of Romani travellers, why was it left to crumble, to become near unenterable?"

"That is true… I'd never thought about it like that!"

"That's because you do not think, Hastings." I frowned at this, stung by his flippant remark, but Poirot did not apologize, instead steepling his fingers and leaning back, looking thoughtful.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"Monsieur Emilien mentioned an account by Father Edouard, in which he finds the key to the chest. If he recognized the key for what it was, surely he would mention the crypt, as that is an integral part of the story." He got up from his seat, neatly folding his napkin up and placing it on the table.

"Where are you going now?" I asked. bewildered.

"I am going to the library to search for this text. You are going to sit here and finish your lunch. You may join me after lunch if you wish."

With that, he rushed out of the inn, leaving me alone with my food. I picked up the bread I had abandoned earlier and chewed it unenthusiastically, annoyed and disappointed at being left behind again.

[BREAK]

After lunch, I decided not to follow Poirot up to the library. For the one thing, I had no idea where the library was, let alone how to get there, and I was also pretty sure I would only be an annoyance if I were to be there. I was also hesitant to step out alone since the incident at the doctors with David - I did not want to be accosted by him again.

For an hour or so, I hung around in the bar, sipping whisky and quietly thinking. When I got bored of that, I picked up a nearby newspaper, and tested my French skills by trying out the crossword. I was trying to figure out what the French word for "goat" was, when the inn door swung wide open.

For a brief few moments I feared that David seen Poirot leave and hand come to accost me again. But no, it was a woman who came through the door, walking backwards as she tried to pull a wheelchair up over the threshold. I leapt up and held the door open so she could come through a little easier.

"Thank you sir, you are too kind." the woman smiled, once she was through the door. "Eliot, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mama." A little voice piped up from the wheelchair, and I looked down to see Eliot D'Echelle looking up at at me. "Oh, I know you! You were at the hospital yesterday! How is your hand?"

"You know this man?" the woman asked, looking between us suspiciously.

"Oh yes!" Eliot chimed. "He was at the hospital when Daniel took me in for a check up. He played with us until his friend came back - you know, that Belgian man you met at the rotary club!"

"You are friend of Monsieur Poirot?" This question was directed straight at me.

"Yes. My name is Captain Hastings."

"Oh, of course!" Any suspicion in her eyes fled at the sound of my name. "Monsieur Poirot spoke about you at great length when we met. He said we could trust you as much as we could trust him."

"So you must be Marion D'Echelle?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm actually here because I need to see Monsieur Poirot. Is he around?"

"No, unfortunately. He's gone to the library - left about an hour ago."

"Oh dear. There's no way I can go to the library today…" She indicated to Eliot in the wheelchair. "Too many stairs."

"I've always said the library should have a ramp." Eliot declared from his seat.

"Yes, but that's because you want Daniel to push you down it at an insane speed."

"It's really fun!"

"It's also very dangerous, and you boys shouldn't be doing it." She turned back to me. "I don't suppose you could pass something on for me, could you? He said we could trust you as much as we could trust him."

"Of course I could pass something on. What would you like me to give him?"

In response, she delved into the basket on the back of the wheelchair, and pulled out a few old newspaper clippings and a navy bound leather book, tied together with some string/

"When we met, Monsieur Poirot asked me if I had anything pertaining to the history of the church," she explained, handing me the bundle. "At the time, I couldn't think of anything, but when I cleaned the house this morning, I found these at the back of a cupboard. The newspaper articles are about the redesign of the graveyard in 1876, 1901 and again in 1922. The book is an account of the life of Father Edouard."

"This might be very helpful, thank you ever so much." Marion nodded at me, smiling a little.

"I hope so. Let's go, Eliot - if we're quick, we can have a few moments at the park."

"Hurray!" I held the door open for Marion and Eliot to leave, my hand shaking in excitement. Finally, I had in my hand something that could connect the dots in this confusing case! I considered running down to the library to show these to Poirot, before I remembered that I didn't know where it was. Instead, I hurried up to our room and lay everything on Poirot's bed.

I looked at the newspaper articles first, but there was not much I could glean from them - there were a few words on how the local community were not happy with the rearrangement, and a few official looking plans of the expansion, but not much that was useful to me at this moment. I then turned to the book, and examined the outside minutely. There was no synopsis or blurb, only some faint embroidery on the spine, most of which had faded to unreadability. I could pick out "Father" and "musings" from the title, but naught else.

I stacked the newspaper clippings on the bedside cabinet, before kicking off my shoes and climbing onto the bed. Fluffing up a few pillows behind me, I lay against them, opened the book, and began to read.


	12. Chapter 12

Excerpts from "The Musings and Thoughts of the Esteemed Father Edouard", published and translated posthumously by Jaques Raymond II, nephew of Father Edouard Raymond.

May 15th, 1901

There are some days when I long for the summer days of my youth. the cool breezes of the sea that drifted inland from the ocean across the coast of Marseilles, the scent of sand and salt that stung at one's nose as one crossed by La Ciotat on the back of a heavy hoofed horse, and the machinery that grunt and grind as one passes the port of Toulon. Today I wish for the return of those days, an escape from the humid air that has surrounded this town I reside in like a thick smog.

It is not all bad news here. A fast horse will take me to Marseilles within three hours if I so wish it. Two if I pay the driver handsomely. And the town is nice and quiet, even during the summer months, which is a sorely missed luxury in the town and cities of the coast. It is just the sordid heat and dampness of the air that makes one feel as if they are locked in a coal fire sauna, with no way of relieving the heat.

The prayer hall of the church remains cool during the summer. The tall ceiling, I expect, pushing all the cold air to the floor. Or perhaps it is the work of God, who would rather our prayer time be solely devoted to him, instead of needing to break concentration whilst we fan ourselves or wipe sweat from our brows. We receive more visitors to the church in the summer months than we do at any other time of year, bar Christmas, so whatever is occurring here is bringing more people closer to our Lord.

I have been in this church for three years now. I was assigned by Father Bastien to this church when the previous Reverend sadly passed on. This is an important site for the history of our people - Saint Maudet's final resting place lies in the crypt at the end of the graveyard. It is important that such a land is protected and cared for. The crypt is in quite good shape considering the years it has been since it was first discovered - the sandstone is firm, the beams are straight, there is no dust to speak of on any of the tombs. I clean the crypt daily, and light candles in remembrance and in reverence of Saint Maudet. Some of the townsfolk come too and leave offerings on her tomb, which is kind of them.

I sometimes wonder why I do not see any travelling folk up in the church. Father Bastien mentioned that they have some history on this land, even used to live next to the crypt, before the graveyard was extended over the land. I asked Father Bastien for more detail, but he refused to give it. "It is something that I would rather like to forget," said he. I wonder what it was that made him so anxious to forget. The travellers do not come close to me, so I cannot ask them. Did a crime occur here? A shaming of the church? I cannot believe servants of the Lord would shame the church in such ways that the most venerable Father Bastien would want to forget it, and yet…

This land is a mystery to me. I must discover more about it.

July 7th, 1901

Today, the mystery of the land I stand on has deepened. I was taking a stroll outside on the grounds with a young archaeologist, deeply enthralled in thrilling conversation about localy discovered bones and buildings in a dig nearby. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we did not realise the magpie circling above us until it was too late. It dived from the heavens like a furious angel, talons unsheathed and beady eyes glinting with steely determination. Both David and I fell to our knees and protected ourselves from the feathered fiend, but the bird took no interest in us after the first initial pecks. Instead, it dived for the floor, and began digging frantically in the dirt.

We watched it curiously as the magpie struggled to remove whatever it was from the dirt. It spent about five minutes poking and prodding at the dirt before giving up and flying away with a disappointed caw. David and I shifted the loose dirt to see what the magpie was trying to unearth. We could see it was brass coloured and shiny, but part of it was stuck in the sun baked gras, and I ended up fetching a trowel to dig it out. From the parts that were not covered in dirt, I could tell that whatever it was, it was old and possibly quite fragile. David has taken it to clean it with professional tools back at his house, so that it does not break.

I await his report on the item tomorrow.

July 8th, 1901

It seems that the item is a key! David brought it to me in quite a state of excitement - he has not seen such an item as this before. Now it is free of dirt and grass, I can see it is not as fragile as we once thought - David aged it at around 70 years old, but it is only the top end that is filled with intricate wire and wood bead decorative that needed care when handling.

The main part of the key is made of solid brass, and it is quite weighty in my hand. The business end of the key looks as if it used to be quite sharp, but time and weather have dulled it to a rounded point. The top end of the key looks to be handmade - the wire looks to be cut with a knife rather than specially made tools, and the beads are made from roughly hewn alder tree branches. David pointed out a fragile lock of hair knotted around one of the beads - perhaps tied by the owner to differentiate it from other keys? Or maybe it is like a keychain - a lock of hair from a loved one? There seems to be evidence of other items tied around the beads, leading me to believe that the latter explanation is more plausible.

David showed me what he thought was the most interesting - the wooden beads each had a letter carved on them. There were six letters in all, spelling out the word "chikni". I did not recognize the word, and neither did David, although we spent many minutes trying to decipher its meaning. We finally came to the conclusion it must be in a different language to our own, for it had no Latin nor French root that we could glean basic understanding of. After several minutes of debating what to do with the key, David left the key in my possession, suggesting I try locking and unlocking the doors around the church and the crypt.

I did as he asked. No door on the grounds opened or locked with the new key - in many cases the key was too big and did not fit in the keyhole! This key could not have come from around here, since the blacksmiths that create the locks on the doors always make their keys the same size to cut down on costs. And they almost never made keys from brass, sticking to more traditional metals such as tin and iron. This was a mystery key from a mystery land.

As I put the key away in my office, a thought struck me - what if this were a gypsy's key? I looked out the window towards the gypsy camp, watching the plumes of smoke rise from their camp fires out on the grassy common. It was certainly possible - they were the only people in this town that travelled to and from here with any regularity. However, I had never seen a gypsy man or woman walk anywhere near the church. Even though crossing the graveyard would shorten their tracks to their camp, they insisted on going around the place entirely. I could not see how on earth they could've dropped something as precious as a key this age on the graveyard when they hadn't even set foot on the grass.

I rubbed my head in bewilderment. Nothing ever made sense when it came to gypsies. I'd never spoken to one, and they never spoke to me. They kept themselves to themselves, and that was what made their actions so confusing. For all I knew, they may have been visiting the graveyard at night. But for what purpose would they do that for? Why were the gypsies so secretive anyway? What did they have to hide?

That night, I fell asleep dreaming of coloured wagons and the fire of a past meant to be forgotten.


	13. Chapter 13

Excerpts from "The Musings and Thoughts of the Esteemed Father Edouard", published and translated posthumously by Jaques Raymond II, nephew of Father Edouard Raymond.

August 27th, 1901

The humid summer days of July have long since passed now, letting in the first few weeks of August with bouts of torrential rain and blistering heat. Storm season is in full swing, and there have already been damages. The school’s roof has been shown not to be waterproof - the classrooms and the hauls have been soaked and flooded. Our collections for alms shall be given to them so that the children may be taught once more in comfort. I can’t bear to think of children sitting in dark, damp places. It is not right.

Daniel, the archaeologist, has since left us for the sights and sounds of Greece. Another dig has called him to the island of Crete, where another archaeologist has discovered something of great importance. He seemed very excited about it all - burbling something about a palace and a complex and other words I could not hope to understand. I wish him luck - if inland France is in such a state after storms, I cannot imagine what a small island is like.

The gypsies have moved on from the common land, leaving barely any trace of their existence, bar the odd patch of burnt grass from their campfires. I never did get the chance to ask them about the key - I had never found the time, having to shuffle summer fetes around rainy days, and holding impromptu sermons outdoors when the weather permitted it.

The key we had found has been sat on my desk since it’s discovery. It’s most prominent use had been as a paperweight, although I had found it was exceptionally useful in winding back the clock that sat in my office - the end was of the right shape to fit in the hole at the back, and it was far easier to use than the fiddly clock key that came with it. I was yet to find whatever it fitted - no lock on a box or on a door opened to its touch - but the curiosity about it still drew my attention from time to time.

But I cannot consider the key today - I must run for cover. This unpredictable weather has begun to pelt me with rain, just as I was beginning to enjoy the warm morning. I shall write more once I am inside.

September 1st

Oh how the angels sing - a gypsy boy has arrived at the church! I am overjoyed that one of them has plucked up the courage to visit the church - perhaps I may convince the others that we are not as frightening as our gargoyles up upon the tower. I did find it rather strange that only he was here - the other gypsies must be far gone now - but in my joy at having one here, I did not care for strange occurrences such as this

The boy was staring out at the crypt when I went to greet him. He looked around nineteen years of age, and  was of dark colouration, however he dressed like any other man in this town. His hair was cut in the traditional Romani style - that is, not at all - but was tied back neatly. His manner of standing was very stiff, as if he would rather be anywhere but here.  I hastened to greet him as warmly as I could.

“Monsieur, I welcome you to our house of God. I do not believe I have met you before.”

“I have not been here before.” the boy replied hesitantly. “My name is Emilian D’Echelle.”

“And I am Father Edouard Raymon, the keeper of this church.”

“Father Edouard?” The boy tilted his head and studied me. “You are the man I have been sent to seek out?”

“Very likely so. I am the only Father Edouard in this town. Tell me, what business has sent you here? I notice your gypsy friends are not here.”

“No, they have moved on. I come here  with a request to marry?”

“To marry? I was unaware people of your background did marry.”

“Normally we have our own ceremonies in our own camps. However… our own leader of our faith refuses to marry my partner and I.”

“Why not?”

“She is not a Gypsy girl. She is from this town, and he does not trust her.”

“I see. May I know the name of this girl?”

“Her name is Marion. Marion Chaput.”

“Oh, dearest Marion! She is a kind girl. I cannot see why your own faith leader would not trust her… Come inside, I shall get you the relevant forms.”

Emilien looked as if he were about to refuse to come inside, but with a deep breath, he nodded and followed me in. We went directly up to my office, and I began shuffling through my files in search of the elusive paper that I required.  When I turned back around, I noticed Emilien taking a peculiar interest in one of my paperweights - the key.

“You recognise that?” I asked lightly, watching him closely. He jumped nearly a foot in the air, before looking at me sheepishly.

“I have not seen it before - but I have heard of it. This is Roma in origin.”

“It is a gypsy key?”

“It belonged to a woman in the camp.”

“Perhaps you should return it to her then.” Emilien shook his head violently.

“No, she is long since dead.”

“That is a shame. If it is Roma in origin, I wonder how it got here.”

Emilian looked at me with surprise in his eyes. “You truly have no clue?”

“No. Why, should I?”

“I am surprised. I would’ve thought someone would’ve told you about this land. They have told each other priest that enters this hall. Well, a convoluted version at least.”

“What is this story? What should I know about this key?”

Emilian looked at me for a long while, before indicating I should sit down. He began to speak.

September 3rd, 1901

I cannot stop thinking about that terrible event that occurred here. I cannot stop thinking of the bloodshed that must have occurred here, the screams of the women and children… It is abhorrent to think that an event of this magnitude was not regaled to me by my seniors. The blood that now lays upon the hands of the church drips through my conscience like a cold spray from a stormy sea.

And yet, I can scarcely believe it! How can devotees of God stoop so low as to raze the land of the people to have their hands on a body? I am sure they had their reasons - perhaps it is something Emilien has not told me. I have my doubts that he has told me everything to know about this land. He has left parts of it out, I am sure. I cannot be convinced that servants of faith would act in such a violent way without reason.

There is only one way to find out. I have descended to the crypt, into the main body of the chamber. To my left is the alcove where Saint Maudet lays, along with her most devoted abbess, Mother Anais. Peace be upon them for what I am about to do, but I must know! The voice in my mind is telling me to stop, but I must have this proof.

Emilien has told me that the box is located here, in the tomb of Mother Anais. He has begged me not to go looking for it, but I must! How can I leave a box full of treasure undisturbed in the crypt? What if some other person disturbs the dead in search of it? It must be me - I must recover this treasure. Emilien evidently doesn’t want it - so once I recover it, I cannot return it to the Roma. Even though they are in desperate need of money, they will not take blood diamonds. Perhaps I shall distribute some of it to the school so they may repair and improve their facilities.

Mother Anais’ tomb is open. The box is now in my hands. I pray to God that I will be forgiven for what I have done.

September 4th, 1901

Oh god, it’s all true! For all of my doubts and reservations, they have come to naught for he was speaking the truth! And this woman with her most precious artifact… Oh my child, my child! I am so sorry for what has happened to you. To live such brief moments in such a situation… it only shows the state of mind outside your resting place. I now understand why the travelling folk do not come to this place. I do not blame them.

I have no doubt that no other man has descended to this room and discovered what I have. I have left my state of decorum at the door, I have descended into a mindset of greed and depravity, I have disturbed the dead in a misguided search for treasure. I should have placed my faith in God and left this place well alone. He is the voice in the back of my head, he warned me - oh God, Emilien warned me too! Emilien told me not to investigate matters. He knew what I would find here. The will of God has come to me in several ways, and yet I let my lust for gold rule my head! Oh pray that I be forgiven for this most treacherous of sins!

Let us lock the doors and leave this crypt! Oh bless us Saint Maudet, but how can we continue to light candles in your name amongst such horrors that have occurred here? It would be best to venerate you elsewhere, away from the creeping talons of man’s greed. Let this place be gone from our memories, let me build a wall separating this tomb from the prying eyes of sinful men, let this place run into disrepair and ruin, let us forget our past indiscretions.

This treasure, this perfect precious thing that has been left forgotten out of fear. Those priests, those men fallen so far from God- no!  They are not men anymore. The are the spirits that whisper temptation in your mind, those are the fae that lead disciples so far from the beaten track, those men that defiled such a treasure without laying a finger upon it! The black that tars our name now I know what is here… I cannot bear it!

I will be requesting leave from Father Bastien come the morrow. With luck I shall be able to leave here by Christmas. Perhaps that kind townsman Leopold shall take my position here - I know he is interested in becoming a representative of his faith. Before I leave, I must make sure the crypt is forgotten. The alcove where Saint Maudet and Mother Anais lay will be boarded up with stone and cobble. Their tombs shall be moved and buried in the main churchyard. They shall not be moved again. The box shall remain where I found it. I shall hide the key in plain sight, so no other man may take it without notice. I shall tell Emilian of what I have done - he shall know of its location, so that he may guard it when I am gone. And I shall wish him and mademoiselle Marrion all the best in the future.

Let the prayers of the Lord protect it from greedy eyes, and let the spirits of the long forgotten rest in peace. I shall not speak of this again.

 


	14. Chapter 14

It was nearly six o’clock when I finished reading. Most of the room was dark, save for the bedside light, which emitted a weak glow that I was able to read by. I had sunk so low down the pillows that I was nearly completely horizontal. Only my neck, that was craned at an incredibly awkward position, stopped me from being completely flat against the bed. I sat up properly, rolling my shoulders and neck to stretch them. My back had began to burn again, and I considered going to get an aspirin. However, as I debated the merits of getting up and moving, a low chuckle drew my attention from the corner.

“I see you have had an interesting evening, mon ami.” came a voice, and I recognised it almost immediately

“Poirot!” I cried. “What are you doing skulking about in the dark?”

“My apologies, Hastings.” Poirot stepped out of a dark corner, smiling softly at me. “I did not wish to disturb your reading. You are tres beaux when you are concentrating on something, and I wished to admire you for a little while.”

I blushed hotly, and Poirot’s smile widened into a grin. He came closer, and I was able to lean up and kiss him warmly in greeting.

“So, how did your library search go?” I asked, settling down in the again. Poirot drew a frustrated face.

“They had a copy, yes. However, it is missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yes. It is one of few copies left of the script - it’s original printing run was burnt within days of publishing - there were some facts in there that the church did not want to be released to the public. They have the only copy in this town.”

I looked at him, then looked at the book in my hands.

“Hastings?” Poirot asked, noticing my expression. I sheepishly showed him the book in my hands.

“I think I’ve got the book you’re looking for.” Poirot looked at me with rounded eyes, his gaze flicking between my face and the book. I wordlessly handed him, and he examined it as if it were a revered piece of art.

“Hastings, where did you get this?” Poirot asked, thoughtfully gliding a finger down the spine.

“Marion gave it to me whilst you were out.”

“And you did not think to take it straight to me?” There was an accusatory note in his voice, and I hastened to defend myself.

“Well, I didn’t know where you were! And I didn’t know if you wanted me there.” The last part was mumbled as an after thought, and it seemed Poirot did not hear it, for he had turned back to the book and began studying it in earnest.

“Poirot.” He looked up at me, annoyance plain in his features. “Poirot, you left halfway through lunch, and it’s almost passed dinner now. Come have some food before you start reading.”

“But-” I gave him a look that broke no argument, and reached out my hand. Poirot looked at me in frustration, but after a few moments, he sighed, and took my outstretched hand.

[BREAK]

Dinner was superb as always, but the normally finicky Poirot seemed to pay less attention than he normally would. He ate almost mechanically, sometimes angling frustrated glances towards me. We did not talk much during the meal, and what little we did say was short and to the point. I could tell he was angry at me for forcing him to break in the middle of a breakthrough, but I knew he would only become more crabby without food. I was worried he may run himself down.

After food, Poirot settled in the living room with the book and begun to read. I knew full well not to disturb him now, lest he become truly infuriated with me. Instead, I settled with a brandy and a notepad, and began whiling away the time with drawings and word games. After a few hours, I considered turning on the wireless - however I was certain Poirot would take issue with the background noise. I could not wait until he finished, partially because I was getting bored, but also because I wanted to discuss it with him. There were so many things that didn’t add up - for example, why did Father Edouard not take the treasure he found? Why did Emilien insist the treasure was lost? For that matter, why didn’t Emilian mention he’d actually met Father Edouard, and had been told where the treasure lay?

Poirot did not even react when I said I was going to step outdoors for some air. Only a brief hum came from him when I kissed him in parting. Feeling a little hurt, I slid on my shoes, left the room and went down the stairs into the bar. There were very few people in the inn at this hour, which I was grateful for. The barkeep did not even bat an eyelash when I ordered a whisky, drawing the requested beverage with quiet skill. I took it with thanks, and sipped a little, before taking it and myself out onto the patio.

Leaning against the balustrade, I sighed deeply. The chill of the night air and the bite of the whisky cleared some of the resentment that was building up in my head.

I looked up at the starry sky. My eyes immediately sought out Centaurus, the centaur who was accidentally wounded by Hercules in myth. I wondered if my own Hercules was aware that he was hurting me with his rapidly freezing attitude. Perhaps he was like this on a case normally - so absorbed in the chase that he left everyone else behind. I suppose he normally worked on his own - I had never heard any of his Belgian friends talk about his cases. He was probably not used to someone who could not keep up with his intellect.

And yet, I couldn’t help but think he could make an effort to not be so unthoughtful. He could be mindful - hell, he could be kind! - to the victims of a case, but everyone else  who was not apart of the case became baggage, and he treated them as such. It made me wonder why on earth he asked me to assist in the case. Emotional support? Someone thick enough to make him sound like the voice of God? I didn’t want to sit here and be hidden in Poirot’s shadow. The mythological Hercules honoured the centaur he wounded in the star - would Poirot do such a thing, or would he leave me behind in the shadows?

I hoped that he would not leave me to trail in the darkness. I loved that little man, but I did not want to be treated as his inferior. I was not his inferior at all! Perhaps he was more intelligent, more elegant, a far better cook… but that did not make him a better man than I. We were both human, and in some respects I was better than him. We were equals.

“Hastings?” I jumped a mile when I felt Poirot’s hand upon my back. Once I realised who it was, I relaxed, and gave him a smile.

“You’ve finished reading, I take it?” I asked. Poirot had always been a faster reader than I - things that would take me half the morning to read would take him an hour to whiz through. Even though he read quickly, his brain remembered every detail.

“I have.” Poirot replied, coming to stand beside me.

“What did you think of it?”

“l think that there are many parts of interest.” I huffed in frustration at his vague answer, and he laughed. “Ah, Hastings! If only you learned to apply the little grey cells, you would see.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m too thick to see what these points of interest are.” I had meant it as a joking kind of remark, but it came out sounding bitter. Poirot looked at me, alarmed.

“You must not think like that, Hastings.” he said, a frown on his face.

“What, it’s true! Even you said so.” Poirot was quiet for a time, and I let him stew in his thoughts. After a time, I felt his hand cover mine. I looked down at him, waiting for him to speak.

“My apologies if I misspoke, mon ami. I did not mean to harm you. There have been… other things on my mind as of late.”

“You were only speaking the truth. I don’t think half the time.”

“It is true sometimes you do not think. However, you have a pure heart and a good mind, one which could be great if you just applied it correctly. I fear I do not tell you that enough.”

“But it’s not as good as yours.”

“Hastings… Do you not see?” I looked at him, confused at what he was getting at. “I do not need another Poirot. One is enough for this world.  What I require is a good friend, my dear friend Captain Hastings.”

“You need... me?”

“Oui.” I felt my cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and I gave Poirot the warmest smile I could muster. He smiled back, squeezing my hand tightly.

“Now come back inside, Hastings. It is getting cold, and we have much to discuss.”

“I’ll be up in a moment. Let me finish my whisky.” Poirot nodded in acceptance. Looking around to see if anyone was around, I slipped my arm around him, before pressing a brief kiss to his lips. He smiled again, before slipping his hand away and darting into the inn.

I must not have been alone for more than a minute, but just as I finished the last of my whisky, I felt someone grab me from behind, and cover my mouth with a gloved hand. I immediately started struggling, but this person was far stronger than me, and simply crushed me against him and carried me away from the inn, and down a dark alleyway. My assailant then threw me hard against the brick wall, momentarily stunning me from the impact. By the time I had recovered my senses, I was trapped.

Slowly, I trailed my gaze up his body until I was looking into the furious eyes of David James.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned that there is a rape scene in this chapter.

“David-”

“You!” he hissed angrily, grabbing my shoulders and pinning me against the wall. “And him!”

“David-!”

“You chose that French hussie over me?!”

“David, let go of me!” I kicked out at his shin, and his grip on me loosened enough so that I could push him away. “This is none of your business!”

“It is every part of my business!” he replied. “You lead me on, whilst you and him-”

“I did no such thing!” I interrupted hotly.

“Then what was all this?! The dinner? The friendly glances? “Playing coy”?”

“You wouldn’t take no for an answer!”

“Then what about our history? Our past? You remember those nights. You promised yourself to me, don’t you remember?!”

David looked at me with crazed eyes. I remember what we promised perfectly, but times had changed. Yes, I had promised myself to him, but for seven years I thought he was dead. He couldn’t expect me to keep a pact when I thought he were dead.

“This isn’t war anymore, David.” I said slowly. “Things have changed. Leave it there.”

“And what then?!” I tried to leave, but David grabbed my injured arm and pinned me back against the wall, pressing his body to mine. “What then, Arthur? Are you just going to forget what we promised in the trenches?!”

“We didn’t know if we were going to live or die. We all made promises we couldn’t keep. You know that. Or must I remind you of who you left behind?”

We stared furiously at each other, breathing heavily. I had not been so aware of body space or the heartbeat that thrummed in my throat. My arm ached from David’s grip, but my body buzzed with adrenaline. I had to get away from here - this was getting out of hand.

“Why?” I looked at him strangely, and he elaborated. “Why him? Why that fancy little frog and not me?”

“First of all,” I replied heatedly. “Poirot is a fancy little Belgian. Secondly, he treats me far better than you ever did-”

“What about what you two said on the patio back there?! He called you thick!”

“He said sometimes I don’t think, which is true.” I corrected him, feeling my blood boil at his insinuation. “Poirot is blunt, but he is not cruel. You have no idea what he is like.”

“I have seen how he treats you! He keeps you leashed like a dog to heel-”

“Has it ever occured to you the reason I do not go places is because I don’t want to go?”

“Stop lying to cover for him!”

“I’m not! David, we are happy! Leave us be!”

I tried to leave again, but he pressed me up against the wall and kissed me harshly.I tried to push him away, but he pushed all his weight against me to stop me moving. Lacking anything else to do, I headbutted him and spat in his face, which gave me enough time to at least turn my head to stop him from kissing me properly.

“David, stop this! I don’t want you anymore!”

“What’s your problem, pretty boy? I am far more man than that prissy frog!”

“Let me go! I love him, not you!”

“You are so very confused. You do not love him at all! Perhaps as proof I should be getting rid of that tiny continental ba-”

“No!” Gaining strength from some unknown part of me, I managed to shove him into the opposite wall. His head hit the wall with a crack, and he slid down the wall in a daze. About half way down, he realized what had happened, and began struggling to get up again.

“Don’t you touch him.” I snarled, towering over the fallen man. “If you dare lay a finger on him, there will be no place you can escape to unscathed, do you understand?!”

I gave him one last glare, before I ran into the street. However I evidently overestimated David’s injuries, for he quickly caught me again and dragged me back into the alley. I kicked and yelled out, trying to get him away from me, or at least get someone to be aware of what was going on. Had I been uninjured, I was sure I could’ve fought him off, but with a bad back and a bandaged hand, there was no way I was going to get away.

I fought tooth and nail to get him from me, biting and hitting every part of his body that I could. He fought back, tanking each hit as if he were swatting flies, bending my arms until I thought they might break. But soon I began to tire in ways adrenalin could not even imagine to sustain me, and within minutes David had my front pressed against the wall, my head pressed uncomfortably against the unforgiving brick wall.

“Now then, pretty boy-” I flinched at the nickname. “What should I do to make you forget your little boyfriend?”

“Please-” I struggled against his grip, trying to get more comfortable. David chuckled lowly, pressing his body against mine. I could feel his hardness press up against me, and I felt bile rise in the back of my throat.

“Please what? Please take me like you used to? Please let me forget that Belgian bastard?”

“Don’t… hurt him. Don’t touch him. Please!”

“Oh, I won’t hurt him. Too much. That is to say…” He leant right in close to my ear, his stubble scratching the sensitive curve. “I shan’t hurt him if you let me do exactly as I wish, and do not tell anyone about it.”

All my instincts told me to say no, to start fighting again, but my limbs felt like lead, and there was no way I was going to escape David’s grip. Even if I did escape, I did not doubt that he would bring harm to Poirot. And Poirot had no chance of fighting back - he was not accustomed to being physically attacked and having to defend himself. I could not bring harm upon him. Not like this. I had no choice - Poirot was not to be harmed.

David took my prolonged silence as acceptance of the situation. His arms went around me, and began to undo my belt buckle. His mouth was on my neck, placing sloppy kisses and hard bites all over my neck. I did not move, remaining still and stiff against the wall, not reacting to any of his attentions. His pulled down my trousers and pants in one fell swoop, and his fingers immediately went to probe at my entrance.

I remained still as he prepared me, even though I felt as if I were being ripped apart. I heard him spit into his hand behind me, and knew he had no lotion to ease this ordeal - when he forced entry into my body, it was as if a train had crashed into my lower abdomen and torn everything to pieces. The pain was so great that I had begun to cry involuntarily, silently and uncontrollably. Upon seeing these tears, David cooed at me and wiped them away - I immediately jerked my head away and whacked it into the brick wall in front.

The only way I could survive this ordeal was to remember why I had to do this. It was to protect Poirot. The agonizing pain of him moving within me was difficult to ignore, but I had to imagine that I was not here, that I was with Poirot, and everything was ok. Poirot’s name became a mantra in my head as my weak and defiled body was violated again and again, keeping me from losing my mind from the physical and psychological pain.

It felt like hours, but it must’ve only been minutes before David finished inside me. He lay on top of me, breathing heavily into my ear as was crushed under his seemingly gargantuan weight. Then, with a grunt, he withdrew from me, and I was not entirely sure if the pain was better or worse now. He slapped my bare backside, laughing quietly at my pain.

“You know, pretty boy, you’ll have to do better than that next time.” he said. I heard the zip of his trousers as he tucked himself back in. I did not grace him with a response, letting my body slide to the floor. My fingers fumbled to pull my trousers back up and to tighten my belt, taking far longer than they usually would. I walked out of the alley on shaking legs, with David hot on my heels. David gave one more slap to my bum before leaving with a whistle, sending me sprawling into a ruined mess on the road.

I cannot remember much of what happened after that. I must’ve gotten back to the inn, because I remember seeing Poirot in our rooms. He had taken one look at me and paled drastically upon taking in my appearance. He opened his mouth as if to ask what had happened, but I did not give him the chance to speak, instead choosing to run and hide myself in the bathroom.

I immediately stripped all my soiled clothes and threw them into the far corner. I knew I would never want to wear them again after what happened. I turned the shower on to as hot as I could stand and jumped in, letting the hot water burn my skin. I picked up a flannel and began scrubbing myself, again and again and again until my skin was red raw, but it wasn’t enough - I could still feel his hands and lips upon me.

I do not know how long I showered for - I must have zoned out during it - but my next recollection is the shower suddenly being turned off, and finding myself now kneeling in the bath, scrubbing furiously at my unbandaged hand. I looked up to see who turned the water off, and met Poirot’s concerned gaze. I had forgotten he was here, so concerned was I with getting rid of David’s marks. He took both of my hands in his, stopping me from scrubbing the harsh, bloody skin on my unbandaged hand. He looked at me, his face full of worry and fear. There was a moment, before I knew exactly what I needed right now.

Reaching out, I crushed Poirot in my arms, and sobbed into his shoulder.


	16. Chapter 16

The feel of soft gauze upon my skin was the next thing I could remember. We had migrated to Poirot’s bedroom, along with my first aid kit. I was wrapped up in towels, indicating I had not been out of the shower long. Poirot was at my side, carefully wrapping my scrubbed raw hand in dressing. My other hand felt clean too - Poirot must’ve changed the bandage on it when I got out of the shower. I noticed he was in his shirtsleeves, and his clothes were damp and creased - I felt a little bit of guilt at being the cause of that.

“I’m sorry.” I murmured quietly. Poirot shot me a confused look. “I’m sorry about your clothes.”

Poirot looked down at his ruined clothes and drew a pained face. He brushed some of the creases away with his hand, but gave up with a sigh, turning back to my injured hand.

“Only for you, Hastings.” he murmured, tying the gauze tight with a small knot. “You are more important right now.”

“Thank you.” I experimentally flexed my fingers, feeling only twinges of pain now and again as I moved it. It was not as injured as my other hand, thank God - it would only need to be covered to prevent infection.

A hand carefully thumbed comfortingly at my browline, but I flinched away, remembering how David had stroked my hair before his attack. Poirot looked at me, a hurt expression on his face, and I realised it was he who was trying to calm me.

“Sorry.” I mumbled quietly, coming back closer to him and laying my head on his shoulder as consolation. Hesitently, he slipped an arm lightly around my waist, and when I did not flinch, held me more tightly.

“Qu'est-ce qui vous est arrivé, mon chéri?” he murmured, tucking my head under his chin and cuddling me close. I sighed quietly - I should know he was curious about what had occurred. But I did not know whether I wanted to tell him. I had seen girls who had made the same mistake as I, and they had been turned out by their families, and shamed for being violated.

Would Poirot leave me? Cast me out as damaged goods? After this attack, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to be physically intimate with Poirot. David had ruined that - he would always be in the back of my mind whenever I was touched intimately.  It made me feel sick to think my thoughts would always have David in them, like he wanted. He had gotten what he wanted, because I was too weak to stop him. Would Poirot think of me as weak too? How could I protect him if I couldn’t protect myself?

I did not realise how panicked I had made myself until I noticed how violently I was shaking. My face was wet from tears that had resurfaced, and my breathing had become erratic. Poirot had taken note of plight and held me closer. His hand went up as if to brush away my tears, but I jerked away from him, feeling the phantom hands of my assailant crawl all over my body.

Needing something to do, I got to my feet, and walked to the window, staring out into the black stillness. I could not see the stars anymore, the glare of light on the window pane blocked them out. All I could see was my reflection - a pale, bruised and scratched oval in a sea of dark matter. I noticed Poirot had stood up from his chair, but did not approach, not knowing if he would accidentally hurt me again.

“Hastings…” Poirot started to say, but drifted into silence. The pain and worry in his voice was evident.

“Please don’t leave me.” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. I flushed furiously and looked back out the window, flexing my fingers anxiously against the windowsill. Poirot looked at me curiously, approaching me slowly as if approaching a frightened animal.

“Why would I do such a thing, mon chou?”

“Once you know… when I tell you... Please, promise me you won’t leave.”

There was a brief moment of silence, before Poirot came to my side. He placed his hand on the windowsill beside mine, within reaching distance. “I shall not leave you, Arthur.” he told me quietly. “You have my word.” I nodded, feeling a certain tension in me relax. We were silent for a while, as I tried to find the words to say.

“It was David.” I began, hesitantly. “David… he saw us on the patio, overheard our conversation, and saw us kiss. He got angry. He thought I lead him on, and he was furious I had chosen you over him. He tried to make me believe you were abusive towards me, and he threatened to kill you. I pleaded with him not to hurt you. He said he’d leave you alone if I let him... I tried to escape, I really tried, but-”

Poirot reached out to grasp my hand, but stopped half way. I reached out and grabbed his hand, the firm grip of his compact hand serving to remind myself that I wasn’t in the dark alley anymore, I was with Poirot, in our rooms. The sting of my injury kept me grounded, and Poirot’s hold was enough to assure me that I was safe.

“I am sorry for what he did to you.” Poirot said softly, after a small pause.

“I should’ve fought back more.” I replied, sounding tired and flat. “If only I had fought harder- if I had-”

“Arthur-” Poirot unwound his hand from mine, and forced me to look at him. There was fury in his eyes, and I quailed at the heat of anger. “You are not at fault here.” he said, softening his voice when he saw me flinch. “You are not to blame.”

“But-”

“No, do not think of what might have been. David James is a vile, cruel man, and he is at fault, not you. You did what you felt you could in the situation. That is all you could’ve done. David James should not have attacked you, and it is he who is at fault.”

I let out a breath I had been holding, and nodded, too tired to argue the point any longer. Poirot cupped my cheek in apology for his anger, and I leant into the touch, weakly accepting the care he showed through his actions.

“We should retire to bed, mon brave.” Poirot said after a while. “You must rest.”

“Poirot, I-” I stopped, not knowing how to say what I wanted to. “I- I don’t think I can sleep with you tonight. It’s too soon. I must have time. Please.”

“Of course.” Poirot replied quietly. He let his hand drop from my cheek, and I felt its loss keenly. He murmured his goodnights, but before he could leave, I caught his arm with my hand.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” I asked. Poirot smiled softly at me, squeezing the hand that lay on his arm.

“I do. Moi aussi, je t'aime.”

[BREAK]

The night passed in fitful slumber. Nightmares and black thoughts raced through my mind like rabid dogs, snapping and snarling at my unconscious mind. Many times that night I woke up in cold sweat, a scream perched precariously on my lips. At some point during the night, my injuries began to make themselves known with harsh, painful throbs and stings, and I had to get up and take a painkiller before I tried to rest once more. At any rate, when I woke up next, the light was shining brightly through the window, and I still felt uncomfortably foggy minded.

The next thing I noticed was Poirot. He was sat on the side of my bed, watching me quietly. He had tidied up from last night, and now wore one of his more recent purchases - a granite grey suit, with dark green accents. I personally had this one tailor made for him for his birthday last year, and I always felt a thrill of pleasure whenever I saw him in it.

“Good morning,” I said softly, stretching my sleep-heavy limbs. A few joints and bruises complained about this, forcing me to wince and retract my arms.

“Good morning, Hastings.” Poirot replied, equally as softly. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a train.” I told him truthfully. A flicker of amusement crossed his features, but it soon faded into a somber expression. He looked as if he itched to reach out to me and check I was ok, and so I took his hand and kissed the palm. Seeing this as the invitation it was, he let his hand drift until it was cupping my cheek again.

“What will you be doing today?” I asked, leaning into his hand. “I see you’ve started the day already.”

“Oui, I visited the church this morning. Later today, I shall visit Monsieur Daniel - I believe he is working up at the crypt today - to see what he knows about this book.”

“You think he’s read it.”

“The book was taken from the library under Monsieur Eliot’s name, and as far as my inquiries this morning uncovered, there are only three people who have read this book who could’ve also committed the thefts. He is one of them.”

This all sounded exceptionally interesting, and I wanted to help again, and go with him to the crypt, but a knot of fear kept me from speaking up. What would I do if David came for me and Poirot again? He could easily overpower both of us. I didn’t want to see him, I didn’t want him near me or Poirot ever again.

Perhaps seeing where my thoughts are going, Poirot spoke up. “Hastings, if you wish to come with me, I have made provisions so that Monsieur David James will not, and cannot come close to you. However, if you wish to stay and rest, I understand.”

“I do want to come, but… Will you be safe? What if your arrangement doesn’t work?”

“It shall, mon cheri. We shall be as safe as we can be under the circumstances. And if he does come close…” I could see a sheet of icy fury cover his face momentarily, and I knew exactly what he would do if David James came within five yards of us. Worried about what harm would befall him if he went through with it, I took the hand that had been loosely caressing my cheek, and folded it in my own.

“Poirot, please don’t take him on.” I said, squeezing his hand. “

“But he hurt you badly-”

“It won’t be as bad as he’ll hurt you if he finds out I told you. Please, don’t get yourself hurt.” Poirot stared at me, quietly assessing my words. I stared back, heart in my throat, hoping to God he trusted me and left David James well alone. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, he settled back down on the bed, and gently held one of my injured hands in his own.

“I do not like this, Hastings.” He murmured, studying my bedsheets intently. “This is not la justice.”

“I know, old thing.” I replied quietly. “But I won’t have you hurt by David. I don’t want you to go through this like I am. Please, if you see him, leave him alone.”

Poirot squeezed my hand and said nothing.


	17. Chapter 17

It took me about an hour to get ready instead of my usual ten minutes - dressing with my injuries took time, although Poirot helped somewhat. After a quick breakfast of toast and jam, we left the inn together. I noticed that the warm summer air I had enjoyed on previous days here had now gone, leaving clouded skies and cold winds that rattled through the streets. Most of the townsfolk had decided not to brave the weather today, instead hiding inside warm homes. The odd person we did see was normally hurrying through the streets, not even pausing to say hello.

Although Poirot had assured me that we were safe, I couldn't help but be extra vigilant as we walked towards the church. Each alleyway, each dark corner was scrutinized as we passed, and my ears picked up every little noise in the street. Poirot could see exactly what I was doing, but didn't pick me up on it, instead pinching his lips and walking a little faster.

Due to my hypervigilance, I noticed what preventative measures Poirot had put in place very soon after we had left the inn. Bryant, Reverend Leopold's protegee and trainee police officer, was trailing us. He was unnoticeable to the unwatchful gaze, but I could see him following us at a respectful distance, unobtrusively keeping an eye on the streets. I didn't know how much Poirot had told him, but I was grateful for the extra surveillance.

We reached the crypt just before eleven. As Poirot had predicted, Daniel was working there, quietly rearranging some flowers in the embankment that lead down to the river that ran behind the crypt. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw us approach, dropping the trowel into the dirt and removing his gloves so that he may shake our hands.

"Captain, Monsieur." he said as he greeted us. "Father told me that you would come to speak to me. How may I help?"

"I wished to ask you a few questions." Poirot replied. "You know have lived with Reverend Leopold for how long?"

"Since I was young a young boy."

"Was this before or after Reverend Leopold became reverend of the church?"

"Erm… Just before, I think. I was taken in by him when I was two, in 1910. He became Reverend in 1912."

"Do you remember any of the predecessors of Reverend Leopold?"

"No, I don't - not really, anyway. From what Father has told me, there wasn't a priest of the church since Father Edouard absconded in 1902. The religious authorities refused to appoint a new priest until Father Edouard died in 1911. Father was trained and appointed soon afterwards."

"Do you know why Father Edouard left?"

"Probably wanted to run a place bigger than this, I expect. They taught us in school that Father Edouard had travelled the third world before coming here. It would be pretty difficult for anyone to settle small after seeing the vastness of that."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully, and I could tell he had just received another clue to the puzzle. "Thank you, monsieur. One more thing - I understand you are friends with Monsieur Eliot?"

A guarded expression came over his his face. "I am." he said cautiously, giving Poirot a searching look. "Why?"

Poirot raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "I merely wished to ask if you had ever spoken to him about the church."

"Oh. No, we haven't. Not really. I think he's heard stories about it from the other gypsies, but…"

"You have not heard anything?"

"No. Is there anything else?" He looked an Poirot, as if expecting him to say more. When Poirot remained silent, he sighed, looked down at his feet, before looking up with a sheepish expression on his face. "Sorry, I'm just a little… protective, lately."

"Why so?"

"Eliot… well, he hasn't been himself lately. Something's bothering him, and he's not telling anyone what's going on. I'm a bit worried someone might have said something insensitive to him, you know?"

"I understand. If you wish, either Captain Hastings or I shall speak to him, to see what is on his mind."

"If you could, monsieurs," Daniel replied with gratitude in his eyes. "that would be wonderful. Thank you. He's with his mother right now - I think he's skipping stones on the bridge. You can get there quicker by following the river."

He pointed to a small uneven path that ran by the river. My first immediate thought was that there was no way Poirot was ever going to go down there - it was awkward, muddy and wet. I looked at Poirot, wondering what he would have to say about it, but he was looking out into the distance, a frown on his face. I touched his elbow to get his attention.

"What do you think Poirot?" I asked careful to keep my voice down so that Daniel could not hear. Taking the hint, Daniel picked up his trowel and wandered off to tend the plants.

"I think monsieur Eliot should be spoken to. He does not recognise me, but you…"

I suddenly realised what Poirot wanted me to do. He wanted me to go to Eliot. On my own. Leaving him behind. A knot of fear tightened in my gut. I did not want to go on my own - there was no way I would go on my own!

Perhaps seeing the thoughts that raced through my mind, Poirot stroked my shoulder soothingly. "Do not fret, mon brave." he said quietly. "I know you have noticed monsieur Bryant following us - he will go with you. I would not ask this of you if it were not necessary, but…"

The thought of Bryant keeping an eye on me gave me a little comfort, but I still worried. "What about you, Poirot?" I asked, trying to keep the tremour out of my voice. "Will you be safe?"

"I shall stay in the church with Daniel and Reverend Leopold." he replied. "I shall be ok."

I studied him quietly, looking for any trace of fear or worry. There were none - he was obviously very sure of the arrangements. I sighed, before nodding my consent to go. Poirot motioned Bryant over with a twitch of his head, and after a few moments explaining what would occur, Bryant and I left for the bridge.

[BREAK]

The journey to the bridge was uneventful. Bryant and I spoke a little, but most of the trip was spent in silence. The path we took started out muddy, but soon climbed to higher land where it was drier, into common land pastures filled with bluebells and wildflower. Had I not been in such a nervous disposition, I would've enjoyed the scenery - having grown up on the family estate, with it's rolling fields and acreage, in nature was one of the places I felt most comfortable.

The bridge was merely five minutes down the path. As soon as we arrived, I noticed Eliot was sat securely on a rock that protruded out over the river, his wheelchair a few yards away. He looked morose and nervous as he tried to skip stones, each one sinking to the river floor as they refused to bounce upon its service. I looked at Bryant, who seemed to take the hint and stayed back, as I approached the small little boy.

"Haven't got the luck to make them skip, eh?" I said as I approached. Eliot jumped a little at my voice, not expecting anyone to come from that direction.

"Oh hello, Captain Hastings." he replied once he had gathered his wits. "I'm not doing too well today - can't make them skip at all. Are you any good at skipping, sir?"

"I was quite good." I remarked, leaning up against the rock. "Although I haven't skipped stones for a while."

"You should try again, sir. Here - try one of these." Eliot presented me with a handful of flat stones. I picked a small pale one from his hand. With a flick of the wrist, the rock sailed from my hand, skipped a respectable five skips, before sinking into the river.

"Cor!" Eliot remarked, wonder in his voice. "Five skips! Daniel can only ever do three, and that's on a good day! How do you skip so well?"

For a few minutes, I taught Eliot how to skip stones better - the right grip, the perfect flick, and where to aim the stone to get the best skips. After about ten minutes, Eliot had learnt enough so that he was able to consistently able to get one skip out of the stone, and sometimes two.

"I say, you're getting good at this." I remarked. "Do you practice much in your free time?"

"I practice a lot with Daniel, when he takes me here. Mother takes me here too, but she doesn't skip - she leaves me here whilst she goes and does things."

"Is that safe, with your legs and all?"

"It's ok, I guess. If I get into trouble, or fall in the river, Daniel can hear me from the church grounds, so I'm not helpless."

"Hmm. Where is your mother now?"

"Hospital. Again."

"Is she sick?"

"No, she's…" Eliot sighed and rubbed his face. "She's gone to the hospital, to look at more treatment for my legs."

"Well… that's good, isn't it?"

"No, because the treatment is very expensive, and might not even work. I know that we don't have enough money to pay for it - Papa gives us what he can, and mother works as a nursery maid and gets something from that, but I know it's not enough."

"I see."

"But mother seems to think we will have enough soon. You see, I found something I shouldn't have, and I'm… I'm worried about what she's doing to get the extra francs."

"What did you find?" In response, Eliot pointed to a small wicker box that lay in the basket of his wheelchair. I knelt down and withdrew it, before laying it upon my knee. With a look to Eliot to see if this was ok, I flipped the latch on the box and opened it up. Upon seeing what was inside the box, my heart froze in my chest. Did this mean what I thought it meant?

Inside the box, there lay the missing keys.


	18. Chapter 18

With this monumental discovery in my hands, I rushed back up to the church. Bryant followed close behind, keeping up with my fast pace with ease, but even he was a little worn out by the time we hit the castle grounds. Poirot was not by the crypt, and neither was Daniel, so we both hurried to the main chapel. Father Leopold greeted us at the door, looking curiously at both of our windswept faces. With a few words, he pointed us to the prayer hall whilst he hurried off to make tea.

Poirot and Daniel were near the front of the prayer hall, examining the piano in the corner with interest. Upon seeing me and Bryant hurrying towards him, he stopped speaking and looked at us curiously, his eyes flickering between the box in my hands and our tired, messy appearances.

“Hastings?” he asked, the question evident in his voice. Being out of breath and unable to speak, I simply handed him the wicker box, before flopping down ungracefully into one of the pews. Upon being given the box, Poirot placed it on the top of the piano, before opening it and peering in. His eyes immediately went wide upon seeing the contents, and an all-knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“Is that…” Daniel muttered, having looked over Poirot’s shoulder to see what had been discovered.

“I believe,” Poirot said, running his fingers along the keys. “that you will find here the stolen items of your fathers.”

“Well I’ll be!” Bryant exclaimed, picking up one of the keys and examining it excitedly. “And to think that little boy had them all this time!”

“Perhaps not all of the time, but some of it.” Poirot corrected him with a smile. “Monsieur Daniel, Monsiuer Bryant, could you please return these to your father?”

“Of course!” Bryant dropped the key he was holding back into the box, closed it up again, before placing it under one arm. The two men practically skipped out of the prayer hall, leaving Poirot and I alone once more.

“So, what do you think, Poirot?” I asked, turning to him. “How did Eliot have the keys?”

“Why do you think, mon ami?”

“I have no idea. This case is right over my head, I can’t make anything from it!”

“Ah, but there is where you and I differ. You see, I believe I may have the answer.”

“You do?” I was astounded, and my surprise leaked into my voice.

“Oui. Did you not think Poirot would figure it out?”

“Well, I thought you’d figure it out eventually, but there are barely any clues!”

“There may be few clues, but there is enough for Poirot to conclude the case. Do you not recall what clues we had?”

“Well, there’s Eliot and the missing keys, stories of a box, that account of Father Edouard…”

“Ah Hastings, you think too simply. Those are indeed our clues, but they are made of many other smaller, but no less important clues.”

“Then what do we know?”

“We know that the person who committed the thefts must be someone who knows the story of this land, knows of Father Edouard’s account, and is close to Monsieur Emilien.”

“How do we know that?”

“Think, Hastings, think! What reason would Monsieur Emilien have to lie?”

“To protect himself?”

Poirot shook his head violently. “We know Monsieur Emilien knows the location of the box and its key - Father Edouard told him so himself. Why would he be digging up the graveyard? Why would he steal so many keys if he knew which one was the right one?”

“I see your point. So he did it to protect somebody?”

“Oui! And we know only three people know of the account of Father Edouard who could’ve taken the keys!”

“Right…”

“And who out of those three people would Monsieur Emilien protect at all costs?”

“Umm…” I thought for a moment, before the answer became clear in my mind. “Oh, of course! His family! Eliot!”

“Exactement, Hastings!”

“But how could’ve Eliot have done it? He can’t walk, let alone break into a church and dig up graves!”

“Perhaps Eliot did not commit the crimes himself, but he is certainly involved.

“I really can’t believe that. He’s thirteen! Eliot isn’t some criminal mastermind, surely-”

“No, but are not boys of thirteen years not impressionable? Eliot is a young boy who has lost use of his legs. All of his life he has been dependant on people to assist him - first his mother, then Daniel too.”

“So, manipulated?”

“Perhaps. I was thinking more along the lines of blackmail.

“Blackmail?!”

“Yes. Think about it, mon chou. If either Daniel or Marion asked him to keep something quiet, or to do something for them, he would not be able to say no. He is dependant on both for his care - if he told anyone…”

“...Then he could be put in harms way.” I finished his sentence with a growing sense of horror and panic. “But if he gave us these, and he is found out-”

Poirot nodded. “Monsieur Eliot has put himself in terrible danger by revealing these to us.”

“Well, what should we do?” I asked, getting up. Poirot agitatedly neatened my attire, before hurrying to the door. I rushed after him.

“We must meet with Monsieur Emilien at once.” Poirot called over his shoulder. “And have him retrieve the box. There may be a life at stake now. Quickly Hastings! This case must end soon, and the perpetrator caught. I only hope we are not too late.”

[BREAK]

The trip to the camp seemed to take an age. Even though Poirot and I were walking with hurried footsteps, I kept thinking that we wouldn’t be able to get there in time. Bryant was following us, and along the way we had somehow managed to pick up Theodora on our travels. Upon hearing we were heading to the camp, she insisted on coming with us in case we needed someone to translate from the Romani language.

Finally, the smoke from the gypsy campfires became much more defined, and the wagons came into view at the bottom of the hill. Our group hurried into the main body of the camp, each one of us aware of the time sensitive nature of our task. Theodora immediately began speaking in rapid Romani to one of the women of the camp, trying to identify where Emilien was. They seemed to have some sort of argument about it, before Theodora turned to us to translate.

“She doesn’t want you people in the camp, so she’s going to show me where Emilian is.” she said, looking a little annoyed. “I’ll bring him here once I’ve found him. Stay here.” With that, she followed the other woman deep into the camp.

Whilst we waited, I couldn’t help but worry about Eliot. Was he ok? How long would it be until the missing keys would be discovered by the thief? I wondered if he’d even left the river yet. I wondered if he had even realised the danger he was in. I had not known the boy for long, but I felt fond of him. I didn’t want him hurt. I didn’t want anyone hurt, but it seemed so wasteful if he was hurt, or worse still, killed. He had a whole life ahead of him. Poirot had noticed my worry, and I am sure he would’ve held my hand had we been alone. Instead, he squeezed my arm sympathetically, his face mirroring the worry I felt.

After around five minutes, Theodora returned with Emilien, who looked confused. “You wanted to see me?” he said, looking between us. He seemed to be particularly worried about Bryant, seemingly recognising him as the trainee police officer that he was, but Bryant did not seem particularly bothered, staying at the back of the of the group.

“Oui.” Poirot said, eyeing him carefully. “You see, we have read - that is, myself and Captain Hastings have read - the full account of Father Edouard.”

A shadow crossed Emilien’s face. He seemed to cycle through several emotions quite rapidly - first shock, then fear, then stubborn determination, before settling for impassive.

“I see.” Was all he said.

“Oui. I do not doubt your reasons for doing so - I believe you thought your son was involved in the crime, non?”

Emilien said nothing.

“You lied about the extent Father Edouard knew about the box hidden by your ancestors. In fact, he knew everything about the land, and the box, because you told him when you went to him to ask for a venue to host the marriage of you and Mademoiselle Marion.”

Emilien looked levelly at him. “Yes, I lied.” he finally said. “I thought Eliot might’ve been caught up in this business. He mentioned that he had taken the book out from the library, having recognised the name from me. When I heard about the thefts… I feared he had been pressured into revealing its contents.”

“It is understandable. You did not wish your son to be implicated.”

“He is young. If he is involved, he can’t know of the seriousness of it all. The treasure is said to be beyond value. Men would kill for a chance to find it!”

Poirot held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Monsieur, your son will not be in trouble. I doubt knows what he is involved in.”

“That is good news.”

“However, you know of the boxes location. I fear until it is revealed, the thief will not stop until it is found.

Emilien shook his head violently. “No, no! I cannot! You do not know of the pull there is for men to-”

“But I do, Monsieur. I know exactly what is in the box.”

“You do?” Emilien said, staring hard at him. “Then why do you need me to find it?”

“Because it is the box’s location, I believe, that will give away the true identity of the thief.”

“I don’t see why it should. I cannot reveal its location, I am sorry-”

“Unfortunately, you have no choice in the matter. You see-” Poirot pulled something from his pocket. “-your son took this from one of his carers. He discovered it, and realised what it was. If it is found to be missing… Eliot will be in the firing line.”

The missing necklace hung from Poirot’s fingers, glimmering in the cloudy sunshine. I suppose he must’ve gotten it from the box before it was returned to Reverend Leopold. Emilien hand gone a chalky shade of white upon seeing the key pendent upon its chain. He looked between us all, before looking to the floor and sighing.

“Alright.” he said. “I’ll show you.”


	19. Chapter 19

Our ragtag group made their way back out of the camp, and back up the road. Emilien looked worried and haggard, whilst Theodora had a pinched air about her. Bryant looked his normal calm, collected self, but I was secretly sure he too was worried, and it was only his training that made him able to appear so calm. I felt like someone had opened a can of worms in my stomach - my guts squirmed with worry. To try and distract myself from brooding thoughts, I hung back and walked with Poirot, and tried to ask him a few things.

“Poirot, where are we going? Where is this box?”

“You have not figured it out?” Poirot asked, turning to me.

“My head isn’t half as good as yours, Poirot,” I replied self consciously. “I would say it is in Mother Anais’ tomb still.”

“Do you remember where Father Edouard left the box? What exactly did he say?”

“‘The box shall remain where I found it.’ I thought he found it in Mother Anais’ tomb?”

“He did.”

“So we’re going to the tomb of Mother Anais.”

“Non.”

“Why ever not? If the box is there…”

“Ah, but you see Hastings, that is exactly where the box isn’t.”

“...I don’t understand.”

“Did you ever read the newspaper articles given to you by Marion?”

“I skimmed them, yes.”

“One of the articles was from 1922, yes? In the article, it is mentioned that part of the churchyard - the part which included both the tombs of Mother Anais and Saint Maudet - was bombed during the war. That part of the graveyard was moved, and what bodies they could find were reburied. It is likely that Mother Anais was moved too. However, due to lack of resources available in the town during the war, the graves were not remarked.”

“So the box is lost with them?”

“Evidently not Hastings, seeing as we are going to the box. If the box was lost, Monsieur Emilien would’ve told us.”

“Oh.” I paused, thinking quietly. “So where are we going?”

“You shall see.”

Poirot’s riddling answers were starting to get on my nerves, and I told him so. I merely smiled, and touched my elbow in slight apology. We continued on our way in silence, our footsteps being the only sound on the street. We reached the bridge that crossed the river - however, instead of going over it and up the road like I expected, we turned off and took the path that ran by the side of the river, leading up to the back of the crypt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Poirot grimace upon recognizing the route, and I smiled despite myself.

There was no sign of Eliot anywhere near the river - his mother must have taken him home. A few of the stones we had skipped lay upon the rock where he once sat, and I saw Emilien run his hand slowly over it - I imagine he knew this was where Eliot spent most of his afternoon. This brief interlude was rudely interrupted as a pair of scuffling feet came from the bridge. I looked up to see what it was, and immediately looked down again, fear gripping my mind - it seemed David James had been trailing us.

Poirot had looked up at the noise too, and upon seeing David, his face transformed into a mask of steely fury. He nodded his head at Bryant, who went towards him, sparing only a brief sympathetic glance at me as he went. In my peripheral vision, I could see Bryant stopping David from dropping down onto the path we were walking on, talking quietly and calmly to him. David had turned an odd shade of puce, and was aggressively whispering back. Emilien and Theodora had stopped moving, and looked between us and David, confusion written upon both their faces. Poirot shook his head and indicated they should keep moving, pulling me along with him so that I stumbled into a walking gait.

“Friend of yours?” Emilien asked lightly once we had moved out of sight.

“Hardly.” I replied. Seeing as I was disinclined to talk about it, Emilien turned back to the path and walked with renewed vigour.

[BREAK]

We followed the path up over the ridge into the churchyard beside the crypt. Somehow, Poirot managed to miss all the mud on the way up, and looked immaculate, whereas I had stepped in countless mud puddles and had dirt running up the back of my trousers. Poirot looked at the mess on my clothes with obvious sadness, but said nothing. Within a few moments, Bryant had run up and caught up with us.

“The key, Bryant?” Emilien said, turning to him. Bryant produced his ring of keys, and opened the crypt door. Emilien ducked inside, and after a nod from Poirot, so did I. We weaved through the crypt, avoiding the cobwebs and dust, until we reached the crack in the wall.

“This was where Mother Anais and the saint were buried originally.” Emilian told me as we shuffled through the gap. “Father Edouard had it boarded up after his discovery.”

“What he found must have really startled him, to take such drastic measures.” I replied. Emilien nodded.

“It did. He was in quite a state of agitation when he told me that he found it.”

“You know what is inside?”

“No, but I know it is not what you would conventionally call treasure - the good father mentioned no jewels or gold.”

I pondered over his cryptic words for a while. No gold? What could be referred to as treasure that wasn’t of monetary value? I finally slid out of the crack into the alcove with the cushions and the campfire. There was a stack of rubble in the corner, and Emilien went directly to it, moving blocks around to get at something. After a few minutes, he straightened up, a plain wooden box in his hands.

“Is that it?” I asked, expecting something a little more fancy.

“It is.” Emilien confirmed. “Us Romani are not rich people - we own barely anything of monetary value. But you see on the top here-” He showed me the lid, and I could see letters carved into it. “-that is a Romani name.”

“The name of the woman who owned it?”

“Perhaps.”

“I can’t believe Eliot didn’t recognise it.” I said, as we squeezed through the gap.

“But he did.” I looked back at him, and was surprised to see him flush. “That was the other reason why I lied. I... overheard Daniel and Eliot talking about the box they found in the crypt. I couldn’t be sure it was this box, but I couldn’t risk it. I am sorry about that.”

Lacking anything constructive to say, I simply nodded. We continued out of the crypt and back onto the churchyard, where Poirot, Bryant and Theodora were waiting. Silently, Emilien handed over the box to Poirot, who accepted it with a grim expression.

“And the key?” he asked.

“In the church. Is it open?” Emilien directed the last question at Bryant, who nodded solemnly.

“Father is in, I believe, as is Daniel. The doors should be open.”

We traipsed up to the church, and true to his word, the church doors were open. Daniel and Reverend Leopold were waiting at the door. Upon seeing us, they waved a hand in greeting.

“Monsieur Leopold, my apologies for being so long,” Poirot said, tipping his hat in greeting. “but I believe I have found your thief.”

“You have?” Leopold replied, his countenance brightening at the news. “That is great news!”

Poirot nodded. “But if you do not mind, monsieur, there is some business we must wrap up indoors. If we may…?”

Leopold nodded, he and Daniel stepping aside to let us through. Daniel looked particularly surprised to see Emilien among our number, but Emilien merely looked at him calmly as he passed. Emilien led our group into the prayer hall, the spacious room hoarding cold air and the darkness of the sky outdoors. I shivered, and I could see Poirot was similarly affected, pulling his coat tighter around himself. Emilian did not seem to feel the cold, instead stepping up to the altar and running his fingers along the decorative sides.

“What’s he doing?” I murmured to Poirot, watching Emilien with curious eyes.

“He’s finding the key for us.” Poirot replied, not looking at me as he spoke.

“But the thief didn’t even take anything from here. You don’t mean to say-”

“Oui. You see, Hastings, the thief was like you - they read the account of Monsieur Edouard, and came to erroneous conclusions.”

“So the theft, the grave digging- it was all for nothing?”

“In a way, yes.”

I sighed, scratching my head. “I think you’d better start explaining this fully Poirot - you are making no sense.”

He looked at me carefully, as if assessing me, before he nodded and rose. “Yes,” he said, gaining the attention of the room at large. “I believe it is time I explained everything.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

Poirot wandered up to the front of the hall, leaving the box lain on the pew beside him. He spared a glance to Emilien, who was tapping away at the alter, before turned to face us, eyeing us all carefully.

"Mes amis," he began speaking to the room at large. "This case has been quite the journey. It was complex, contradictory, and throughout it all there have many attempts for facts to have been covered up." At this, I noticed Emilien still in his movements. Poirot ignored him.

"First, let us go back to the first theft. The person involved stole a seemingly random collection of items. My associate, Captain Hastings then identified them all as keys of some kind."

Poirot tipped his head at me, and I felt a warm burst of pride at the mention.

"Following that, we crossed the graveyard, and made our way to the crypt. Although I did not mention it at the time, I took note of those graves that were dug up - they were all ones in the area of the blast that hit in 1916."

"They were looking for the grave of Mother Anais." Theodora murmured.

"Oui," Poirot agreed. "They were looking for the treasure said to be hidden there."

"Treasure?" Daniel asked. "What treasure?"

"Je suis desole, Monsieur Daniel, I forgot you have not heard of the story. I shall explain all later. However, you must be content with knowing that there was indeed a treasure located on the grounds that someone wanted quite badly."

"We soon heard the story of Emilien, about this box and the history of the grounds, after which we came across the account of Father Edouard. This meant that there were only three people who knew enough to attempt to steal the box - Marion, Eliot and you, Daniel."

"Eliot?" Daniel asked, surprised. "How can he be involved in this?"

"Unfortunately, Eliot is very dependant on both you and Marion for his care, since he cannot walk. The thief had manipulated his emotions, and had used him to scout out the church."

"Hold on," Reverend Leopold said, frowning. "Daniel wouldn't have needed Eliot to scout the church - he knows it like the back of his hand."

"Exactly. There was no reason for Daniel to ever require the assistance of Eliot once he read the account. As a result, he did not read it, and is completely innocent."

"So who was the thief?"

"It was Mademoiselle Marion."

"Marion?!" Emilien turned to Poirot, flabbergasted. "Marion? Are you sure?"

"Very sure. Mademoiselle Marion, single mother of a disabled young man, a young woman desperate to heal her son but lacks the money to do so. Eliot confided in my associate Captain Hastings that Marion was looking at expensive treatment for him, even though they had little to spend. I feel that Marion was certain she would find the treasure, after reading the account of Father Edouard that Eliot brought home from the library one day."

Poirot turned to Emilien. "She asked you where it was, did she not?"

Emilien was silent for a time, before uttering. "I thought I'd convinced her not to go looking for it."

"Evidently not." Emilien looked at the ground, before whirling around and studying the altar again. Poirot turned back to us. "Luckily for us, Marion was not able to discern the location of the box. Just like my good friend Captain Hastings, Mademoiselle Marion misunderstood what Father Edouard wrote on the day he opened the box. You see, Father Edouard told us all the clues we needed to find it, in a fashion."

"He did?"

"He did, although I did not see it at first. First of all, the location of the box."

"I thought it was in the tomb?"

"It would seem to the untrained eye that it was there. However, I soon realised that it could not be there. If it was, Emilien would've said the box was lost, since the tomb was hit by a bomb in 1916 and it would've been impossible lo locate where the tomb was reburied - although Mademoiselle Marion gave it a good try."

"Then what about the key?'

"Father Edouard mentioned that the key was "hidden in plain sight", in a place it could not be taken without notice. Marion believed this place to be in the office of the leader of the faith - that is, the office of Reverend Leopold. However, Father Edouard was much smarter than this, since the office could be moved, and could possibly turn into an unused, undefended room-"

"So he hid it in a place that would always be watched." I finished, comprehension finally dawning on me. "The prayer hall. The alter. There's always someone here - be it Father Leopold, his family, or someone coming to pray."

"Exactement, Hastings!"

"But where in the alter?" Reverend Leopold asked. "I would've thought I would notice something key shaped here after all these years."

"You can't see it." It was Emilien who replied this time. He tapped the wood panel in front of him. "It's right here. Unfortunately… I will have to dismantle part of the altar to get at it."

He looked at Reverend Leopold with a question in his eyes. Reverend Leopold looked conflicted as to what he should do, whether to allow sacrilege to occur with his permission or not. Finally, after a few moments, the reverend nodded tersely. Emilien turned back to the panel, and with a great show of strength, he ripped the panel from the altar. The sound of splintering wood made me wince and turn away - ripping up a religious object had never sat well with me.

When I looked back, I saw that Poirot had retrieved the box, and had lain it on the flat surface of the altar. Emilien straightened up, handing Poirot the key. I stood from my seat in the pew and wandered over to see the box. I saw Reverend Leopold, Daniel and Theodora join us. Up close, I could see the box was not flimsy by any means - it was well made, with a thick lid and iron hinges. I supposed if you put a bell in there and shut the lid, you wouldn't be able to hear it ring. I looked back to Poirot, and was surprised to see a solemn look upon his face.

"Mes amis, it is unfortunate for me to reveal what is in this box. For you all misunderstood what Father Emilien meant by treasure."

"You mean it's not gold treasure?" I asked, a little disappointed.

"Non, what is in this box… It would be treasure to some, but not to all. It is not something for our younger audience."

Reverend Leopold understood exactly what Poirot meant. "Daniel, take your sister back up to my office."

"But-"

"Father-"

Father Leopold gave them both a look. The two youths immediately quailed beneath his gaze. Daniel and Theodora looked at one another, before nodding and leaving the room, dragging their feet as they went. The prayer hall door snapped shut behind them, and the Reverend turned back to us.

"Carry on, monsieur." Poirot nodded thankfully at him, before turning back to the box, running a thoughtful finger along the rim.

"I always found it strange," Poirot began. "the way Father Edouard spoke in that last entry. 'To live such brief moments'..."

"Is he not referring to the woman? Arabelle?"

"At first glance, it seems so. However, Father Edouard does not know how old she is, or how she lived. How would he know this woman lived only briefly?"

I remained silent, thinking. Poirot continued, his voice falling a little quieter.

"And then there were other things. 'This perfect, precious thing' does not sound like how a leader of the faith would describe gold or precious jewellery. Emilien himself said that the Roma people are not rich."

"So you mean," Emilien said cautiously. "The thing in here is of sentimental value? A personal treasure?"

"Yes and no. You see, you were right when you said this object was beyond value. To many people it would not be, however to its owner it would've been invaluable."

"After assuring myself that what was here was not of monetary value, I began to explore other options. What personal item would a woman keep on her during such a fearful time? What would she lay down her life to conceal?"

"I then looked back at the text, and it became clear. There was only one thing that would make sense for Arabelle to risk her life to hide. I started to read the text literally instead of metaphorically. What if Father Edouard did not refer to Arabelle at all in his account? What if, when Father Edouard proclaimed 'My child!', he was speaking literally?"

Poirot took the key and unlocked the box. As he lifted the lid, I recoiled in horror and fear, my mouth covering my open mouth in an automatic movement. I heard a gasp from Emilien, and saw he was as affected as I. Father Leopold had gone pale, and clutched at his rosary, eyes closed. Poirot simply looked somberly at the boxes contents.

"For you see, in this box, Madame Arabelle hid her youngest newborn child."


	21. Chapter 21

The smoke from the funeral pyre twisted and coiled up into the sky, the white-grey smoke weaving in and out of the clouds like a python. The fire beneath it burned brightly, burning through the wood beneath it like it were air. The box lay in its middle, becoming the coffin of the poor dead child inside, burning down to ash so that no-one else would be tempted to find it.

I looked on it from the top of the embankment, quietly contemplative. Poirot stood beside me, watching the service with a somber gaze. I knew Catholics such as Poirot and Reverend Leopold did not consider cremation as adequate respect for the dead, but it was the Romani way, and since the child was Romani in origin, Reverend Leopold allowed it on the grounds. He himself was at the bottom of the embankment, closer to the pyre, with his back to us. Emilien was beside him, eyes transfixed on the burning fire.

Bryant was not with us, having gone to contact the relevant authorities after the revelation. Daniel and Theodora had not been informed what was in the box as of yet, and they stayed at the door of the church, watching the proceedings with curious eyes. I did not blame Reverend Leopold for not telling them. So many innocent children had been harmed in this case. It did not sit well with me to hurt two more.

These few days had been hard on us. The bitterness of man's desperation hung around the town like a deep fog, first emitted by Arabelle towards her child, then by Marion towards her son, and then by David James towards me. This was supposed to be a holiday, but all I wished to do was leave, and spend the rest of our holiday healing and recovering with Poirot. I had lost too much of myself here, and I felt if I stayed I would lose the rest.

I brushed my fingers against the back of Poirot's hand, looking for a little comfort. He quietly tangled his fingers with me, and squeezed tightly, turning and offering me a small, sad smile.

"What are you thinking, mon ami?" he asked me quietly.

"Just thinking of this case, of what's happened here." I replied. "There has been so much that's happened here. Too much"

"Oui, I agree. We have seen this week the extent to which a man or woman would go to get their own way. With Arabelle, Eliot, you..."

"The crimes hang around here like smog. It makes me feel uncomfortable."

"I understand." There was a slight pause, before he added; "There is a train leaving for Lyon tomorrow, if you wish for us to return to London."

"I would like to leave, but I know this was supposed to be a holiday for us. Plus, I can't work looking like this."

"Ah, non, you shall not go back to your little flat in the cafe. You will stay with Poirot."

"I couldn't impose-"

"You will not be imposing, I shall enjoy having you to stay. It shall be a vacation in London, n'est pas? I know I have not been attentive to your emotions this week, but I shall make it up to you. You will have time to recover from your injuries before returning to work."

"Thank you. I will go with you, then."

"Bon. I shall get us tickets for the trains and the next ferry to London tout suite."

I nodded, remaining silent. We became absorbed in our own thoughts, but before long, the pyre died down, and Reverend Leopold was saying a last prayer.

As the service winded down, I was suddenly struck by a question.

"Poirot?" I asked.

"Oui?"

"Who will be looking after Eliot whilst his mother is answering her charges?"

"I believe he will be staying with Reverend Leopold indefinitely. I heard Monsieur Daniel put up quite the argument to convince his father to let Eliot stay with them."

"So he won't go with his father?"

"No, if father will return to his own Romani family. He believes it best for Eliot to have a stable education and family life, rather than take him away from what he knows."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Although I disagreed with his decision, I could see why he chose it. Eliot needed his friend, Daniel, to help get through this difficult period. Like I would need Poirot's help to move on from this place, to heal the wounds that had been inflicted .upon me during my stay here. If they healed, that is. I could not see how a pain so raw could heal right now, but I had to have faith that it would.

As if reading my mind, Poirot tightened his hold on my hand. "Courage, mon brave." he murmured. "The wounds will heal. In time, we shall be fine."

I squeezed his hand back in gratitude. Father Leopold finished the prayer, and I heard Emilien murmur his thanks to him. They both turned to go back to the church. I reluctantly let go of Poirot's hand hand and turned to walk up to the church also. Yes, Poirot was correct. We would leave, heal and recover. Given time, the bitter smog would fade away into the clouds, the reminder of man's greed would be gone, and soon everyone would let the memory of this crime fade away into the dark crevices of their mind.

We would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And done. I kinda planned this to go up to Christmas, but I think it ends more naturally here. Thanks to everyone who commented/kudos'd/followed this story. :)


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